


The King's Court

by orphan_account



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, British Royalty RPF, Historical RPF, Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Historical Characters - Freeform, Historical References, King!Dan, M/M, Phan - Freeform, Scotland, Servant!Phil, illegal relationship, reign - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 21:04:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12117219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Prince Daniel is born as the son of Mary, Queen of Scots, and a half cousin to Queen Elizabeth of England. His birth is celebrated far and wide, a baby to unite the rival Kingdoms of England and Scotland under a peaceful sceptre. But when his mother is charged with regicide and is forced to abdicate, panic and self-interest run rampant. Lords rush to Edinburgh to take charge in Dan's infant name as James VI of Scotland, to change the course of nations, and to reign supreme.Step into 1580s Europe with Dan when he begins his reign over this religiously terrorised land. Experience the true stories of scandals that plagued 16th century Scotland as the King struggles to manage the pressures of public life.Which alliances should keep him safe, what advice should he take? Perhaps the biggest question of all: who is the rightful ruler of these fair isles? The Catholic Mary Stuart, the Protestant Elizabeth Tudor, and the secretly gay King Dan are all possibilities in this historical drama. Religious intolerance, political power struggles, scandalous gay romances, et al.The ball is, as they say, in the King's Court. And it's all too real.





	1. Blood Feud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to everyone who can be bothered reading! Please note that this fic will include:
> 
> Course Language  
> Sexual Violence  
> Death and mature themes
> 
> The lives of the Stuarts are the perfect story, so I'm attempting to write my own historical fiction using the events of the 16th and 17th centuries to shape an AU Phan Royalty Fic. I'm committed to researching events and real life characters as best I can to accurately present the historical shape the narrative, so updates may take some time. I plan to shift the focus to Mary's newborn son in coming chapters, I don't want to leave the Phan aspect of this out for much longer.

** June, 1566 **

** Edinburgh Castle, Scotland **

Night fell on the castle as the sun set, casting orange light onto the clouds strewn lazily across the summer sky. Mary adored Scotland, even though she knew her people despised her for having spent much of her life at French court instead. For growing up not a Scot, but a filthy half blood French Royal. For returning to Scotland only after two decades of regency and civil unrest. It was as if she hardly belonged on her own throne. But she couldn't think about her subjects divided by fear, of the growing Protestant support, the real possibility of civil war, and definitely not the constant threat of Elizabeth's unpredictable temper. Her child, her first born child, was about to come into the world. But maybe that's why Mary, Queen of Scots, thought about all these things anyway.

** Placentia Palace, England **

A redheaded woman, wearing an impeccable golden gown flowing beyond her tight waist and pooling a generous distance from her feet, conversed and gossiped with some well to do ladies in a well to do setting- an evening ball for the nobles at court. Women in elegant and large dress skirts flew around the candlelit room with their equally charming male partners as a small string quartet played. The redhead did however notice a figure in a travelling cloak approach. Her breath hitched nervously as she saw the foreigner.

"I apologise my friends," the redhead interrupted her group deviously, "but I don't think it appropriate to discuss the ill-fated marriage of the Queen of Scots," she cautioned, though genuinely becoming disgusted at the distasteful slander being spread through her party of 'well to do ladies' about her cousin. 

"Perhaps in lieu you might discuss the newfound madness of the King of France?" The gossiping ladies quickly quietened down and awkwardly looked at their feet as the stern women in gold scolded them. Timid but lively chatter about France quickly picked up as the cloaked foreigner approached the redheaded woman.

"Your Majesty, I am under order as Queen Mary's secretary to deliver the message that a child, a boy, has been born to her. Her Grace requests that you consider the honour of becoming Godmother to her son," the cloaked man, Sir Melville, said.

She anxiously awaited the words of the ill-tempered, redheaded Queen Elizabeth. The bastard queen was overcome by sudden melancholy as her playful smile was extinguished from her face. She sank dejectedly into a nearby armchair, where she pondered the meaning of it all. The music and dancing promptly stopped as silence hung in the air and all turned to inspect the Queen's reaction.

Elizabeth faced the gossiping ladies who were closest to her, "it appears that the Queen of Scots is a mother of a fair son," she explained, a tear of worry forming in her eye which she battled to prevent from falling, "while I am but barren stock!" The crowd shifted awkwardly as the Virgin Queen shouted and visibly felt the heartbreak of learning that Mary, her own cousin, would dare threaten her. A boy, a legitimate Stuart child with two legitimate Stuart parents and a legitimate Stuart claim to the illegitimate Elizabeth's Tudor throne, was a huge, dark, black, legitimate death-threat.

"Your Majesty? What would you have me report to Her Grace?" Melville awkwardly requested. After the Virgin Queen's scandalous decision to remain unwed, perhaps Elizabeth's positive answer to Melville was for the sake of having a son of some description. That's what she thought of as she, humiliated and terrified, smiled at the crowd and requested that the music play on in light of the 'wonderful' news.

** Stirling Castle, Scotland **

Mary winced at how mechanical life felt. Her loveless political marriage to one, Lord Darnley, produced perhaps only this one good thing to her life - her son and her heir. Her traitorous husband was required present at the christening, but Mary couldn't understand why he'd choose a name as common and English as "Daniel". It was only a week later, in the chapel at Stirling Castle, that the christening occurred. 

Darnley rushed to catch the queen in the hallway running to the chapel, "I was not told that the Archbishop of St Andrews wouldn't be attending the christening..." Darnley pried, clearly shocked but with apparent but suppressed irritation in his voice as Mary whipped around to face the vile creature she called 'husband'.

"Darnley, as I've told you before, I will not have a pocky priest spitting in my son's mouth," Mary whispered back angrily through her teeth, as not to disrupt her effort to smile kindly at the gathering noble audience already in the chapel, "and you will address me as 'Your Majesty' in future. And if your ego can't handle it, then 'Your Grace' will suffice." She finished sternly and quickly turned on her heel to move into the chapel and address the people waiting.

Darnley grabbed her arm, "Your son is as much mine as yours, Your Grace," he sarcastically muttered, pinching when he finished.

"Yes, but I am queen. He's my heir first and yours second. Kindly release me so I can do my duty to my son, someone must after all," she snarled back, hitting Darnley's prying fingers off as she put a distance between the two.

"I will not let you infect my son, the future king, with the traitorous rot that runs in your veins. Do you honestly think I've forgotten about your conspiracies, your lies?" She cocked her head at him, as if to genuinely ask. Mary wasn't sure what her husband was capable of doing anymore. Or how far he'd go to secure power beyond his meaningless position as her consort. Whether his grabs at her throne would endanger the infant royal...

Mary left Darnley and moved into the chapel where she met before the congregation of gossiping nobles to christen the precious infant boy. Mary forced a smile as she stood alone at the altar before the scrutiny of the Court guests. Mary held her son in her arms as she turned, thankfully uninterrupted by the sulking Darnley who seemed to have disappeared from the scene of his own son's christening, to face the crowd.

"My lords, ladies and gentlemen, this is the prince whom I hope will first unite the two kingdoms of England and Scotland," Mary paused to beam ambitiously at the long awaited child in her arms as the crowd cheered, "I, Mary Queen of Scots, hereby pronounce Daniel James Charles Howell Stuart, my son and heir, his rightful title 'Duke of Rothesay'. May God bless him and all you who bear witness."

And a country away from the patriotism and happiness of the proceedings at Stirling, a Virgin Queen cried alone and angrily through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To explain if you're interested - the rivalry between Queen Mary Stuart (Scotland) and Queen Elizabeth Tudor (England) produced intriguing stories and tragically lost Mary Stuart her life as she struggled to hold Scotland together against civil war and religious chaos during the Protestant Reformation (1517-1648).  
> Mary and Elizabeth were first cousins (through their common grandfather, Henry VII of England) and had claims to one another's throne, which they aggressively and violently pursued. They were of opposing religions, so the sweeping rejection of Catholicism in Great Britain at the time would favour one queen's claim over the other as the political climate shifted. As the illegitimate (and Protestant) daughter of Henry VIII, Elizabeth was constantly threatened in a power struggle against conservative Catholic politics and the strong, legitimate claim to her throne (and head) held by none other than her cousin, Mary.


	2. Crown Matrimonial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crown Matrimonial: a person's right to co-reign equally with his or her spouse.  
> Lord Darnley pursued this legal right aggressively and demanded it of Mary many times in their short marriage.  
> Mary never consented to it as she feared Darnley as an enemy to her reign, but she feared him more so when she began questioning what else he might do in order to secure power for his family, which, as Stuarts related to Mary themselves and second strongest claim to the English throne, felt that they deserved a position as rulers of the nation.  
> This chapter takes place in February 1567

Mary waited in her small library, sitting bolt upright in a chair and regularly tapping her finger on the armrests. Few people knew of the room tucked away in a corner of Edinburgh Castle. Sitting alone in the dark, secluded room in the castle was no comfort; the absence of people was uncanny to her.

The heavy wooden door opened as Mary’s most trusted adviser, Lord Bothwell, entered the room.

“Bothwell, thank goodness you’re here. I was afraid you might have been followed or caught or worse,” Mary cried as she rushed from her chair and entered the man’s embrace.

“No, we weren’t noticed slipping out of sight. Darnley was drunk as usual,” Bothwell replied as Mary’s eyes shot wide open.

“I take it that you managed to convince James to meet us then?” Mary responded, and was further surprised when the man nodded at her.

“Well, there is one thing you can do to thank me for that,” Bothwell motioned, leaning in his usual ungraceful manner to meet the emotional Queen’s lips.

“Bothwell, you aren’t serious! I _am_ still married to Darnley and I cannot risk even the hint of adultery. My own husband and his corrupt Council supporters would have our heads if they knew,” Mary reasoned, placing her hand between them, luckily a moment before her half-brother, James, finally joined the secretive party.

“Lord Bothwell and I come to agree that Darnley poses a significant threat,” James stated to formally open the conversation between the three, cause for Bothwell to compose himself once more.

“Darnley is an Englishman and a Catholic; he’s despised by the nobles for being English and the Protestant Councilmen for being Catholic,” Bothwell said, then habitually allowing James a space to contribute a comment of his own to bolster the argument.

“Your union is seen as an act of religious aggression, but more still, Darnley’s ruthless pursuit of power seems worse than the idea of accepting Elizabeth to Court. At least she’s not Catholic!” Mary ignored her brother’s comment on the difference of religion between them, responding instead with a glare and a stern tone.

“But he cannot seize my throne – if I were to die, my crown is secured by Prince Daniel. I’ve denied his every attempt at taking the Crown Matrimonial,” Mary reminded the two, becoming worried for her advisers’ intentions.

“Every moment that we do nothing, Darnley is rallying Privy Council support to secure his position. I don’t think he appreciates you ignoring his demands to grant him equal power,” Bothwell contested.

“Darnley is aware that any chance of becoming a King in his own right is slight, you’ve made that clear enough to him. His blind ambition is on securing a regency, in Daniel’s name.”

Mary cocked her head confusedly, not understanding her Protestant half-brother’s motivations.

Nor those of Bothwell himself.

 

It was only a week later when James disappeared from the castle.

It was in that same week that Darnley was found dead at the site of a horrific house fire.

And in the two months following, Bothwell was to be tried for the murder of the King Consort of Scotland.

And barely a week after that, he was on the road to Linlithgow.

 


	3. King of Scots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in April 1567

**The Lowlands, Scotland**

 

At the back of a coach, Mary was comfortably enjoying the ride from Linlithgow back to the castle at Edinburgh. To be alone after all that happened was a feeling she valued, but she felt sick to her stomach with worry for Bothwell’s increasing notoriety. And she had no basis to reject his guilt in the murder of Darnley. The uncertainty of how a court of law would rule was not a happy daydream.

The coach suddenly came to a halt as Mary found herself pulled out of a trance by the deafening sound of hundreds of men marching. The sound only became louder as she climbed from the coach to find a sea of men, close to 1000 of them, marching behind a man perched on a horse.

“Mary! You must turn back now, the castle isn’t safe for you,” Bothwell screamed from his position at the head of the pack.

“Well, I’m not convinced that riding with you and being at the mercy of a legion of men is the definition of ‘safety’ either,” Mary commented back, “but it seems I have little choice.”

With so many men in tow, Mary anxiously accompanied Bothwell to his castle at Dunbar.

 

 

Safely inside a warmly lit bedchamber at the castle with a fireplace at one end and windows through which the stars could be seen, Mary felt more at ease. She couldn’t shake off thoughts of her son who she felt the strange urge to see, just to know that no harm had come to him. And then Bothwell entered.

“You’ve made yourself comfortable, and you found the night robes I had left out for you! I hope I’m not… intruding,” Bothwell spoke carefully as he approached Mary. The girl shivered at the man’s touch as his fingers slid down the silk nightdress.

“Bothwell, it’s been so little time since Darnley was…” Mary paused to ensure she chose the correct words, “found to be dead…” She was all too aware that this critically tense moment was not like a casual confrontation with one of Elizabeth’s ambassadors, or rejecting a lord in a property dispute at Court.

“I’m not sure this is right, by my own standard, by God, by custom…” Her breath hitched as Bothwell’s fingers untied the drawstrings at the back of the gown and allowed it to slip off her back.

“Someone gave me some advice,” Bothwell began in a sinister tone that made the Queen before him shiver, “everyone who walks through your door wants something from you, and if they do not, then they are lying”.

Mary’s eyes widened in fear as Bothwell tore her clothes from her form and threw her down onto the bed, mounting the young woman and stuffing her face into the fine sheets to muffle her screams and wails as he removed his own clothes to grind against her naked body.

The defiled Queen broke underneath the strong man who wouldn’t relent, her screams inaudible by any of the guards close-by. She continued thrashing and resisting against the man, but his force overpowered her as he forced himself onto her.

“And I think you know what I want from you, Mary, Queen of Scots. Don’t you dare make a sound, and that’s an order from your _King_.”

 

And three months after the murder of Darnley, Mary took a new husband.

 

And one month after that, he fled from her at the first battle of a civil war at Carberry Hill.

 

And by the end of the year, the imprisoned former Queen abdicated in favour of Prince Daniel and fled to England.

No longer Queen of Scots, her death warrant was being penned.

 

 

Long live James Stewart, Regent of Scotland.

Long live the King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! Baby Dan is King of Scots now that mummy is locked up in England, and next chapter is going to be more phanfic and less 'Reign' (I may as well change the relevant fandom in the tags tbh) now that the scene of 16th century court is sufficiently set. I hope you're not getting bored with the lack of phan, promise that Phil and some other YT characters will be introduced in one of the next chapters!
> 
> Anyone want to see Louise as King Dan's close adviser?


	4. James VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope the setup and wait was worth it to introduce the Phan story arc!  
> I promise the Mary / Bothwell / James setup in the first two chapters will come back and wreak havoc in Dan's reign and cause all sorts of mess for him to clean up :DD
> 
> Hope you're enjoying it so far, historical liberties will be taken as we get further into it so probably don't quote me on the historical events when you play trivial pursuit pls. This chapter takes place in September 1579

**September, 1579**

**Edinburgh Castle, Scotland**

 

Dan had long since accepted that he’d likely never see his mother again. He didn’t exactly know either of his parents, all he really knew was that his mother had been a weak ruler. Among other things that he’d been taught by a variety of tutors during his staunchly Protestant education.

Dan thought of all that he knew about the violent political scene of the past 12 years of his young life as his royal coach moved towards Edinburgh to mark his first arrival at Court as not a guest, but a King.

Truthfully, Dan was terrified of what was to come when he finally arrived at the throne to transition from the long string of regents that had governed in his name to begin his own reign.

He’d spent much of his childhood away from the public eye and from Court at Stirling Castle, where the person he came to see as his mother was not Mary, but one Lady Mar. Thankfully, as a King with a throne at Edinburgh, there would be no more spankings and other forms of painful punishment from tutors and adults alike. He was looking forward to that freedom.

Dan wasn’t quite sure what to expect – his mother’s power hungry half-brother, James, was assassinated two years into his regency.

The next regent, Dan’s grandfather the Earl of Lennox, was wounded fatally by a firearm after a raid at the castle by Mary’s Catholic supporters…

And as if Dan’s parental figures hadn’t been inconsistent enough, his adoptive father, the third regent Lord Mar, died before his very eyes from a mysteriously illness.

This didn’t give Dan any confidence in the politically turbulent castle he was about to call ‘home’, although he’d heard that the newest candidate for the regency, Lord Morton, was competent enough.

Morton heroically managed to recapture Edinburgh Castle during the civil war from his mother’s supporters and end the fighting altogether. However Dan wasn’t sure that he liked Morton’s method of public execution of his own mother’s catholic supporters. Ruling by fear was not something he hoped to have to do.

 

The magnificent castle came into view as the coach climbed a steep hill to reach its strategic position. The castle was well lit across its many battlements, turrets, and gatehouses.

As the sun descended on the land, Dan was happy to see that it was in fact his, and not belonging to some faction of his mother’s, trying to threaten his power and his life.

But the continued existence of Mary and the division in Scotland could wait, and Dan was sure that no other 13 year old in the world had this much on his mind.

The coach pulled past the gatehouse and into the palace square, where the footmen were to gracefully move from the back of the coach and open the carriage door for their King. Dan became almost worried when nothing happened, except for the sound of feet hitting the stone paved ground much too hard.

 

After a sufficiently long wait in the still coach, Dan stretched from his seat to open the door himself, where he was greeted by an embarrassed and apologetic face.

A young boy, perhaps a few years older than the King himself, held the door open.

“You there, are you well? I wasn’t sure whether my footman had abandoned me or not,” Dan spoke formally and decisively, infusing his response with the tone of a powerful King in front of the gathering audience that was to receive him at the castle entrance.

“Uhm, yes King James, I have no head worries,” the boy spoke, taking the chance to hide behind his pitch black hair.

Dan had immediate sympathy for the inexperienced footman, who had a hint of a French accent and probably didn't speak the native Scots as well as the other servants. He chuckled as he realised that a more friendly approach would be less terrifying for the poor boy.

“Je ne m'appelle vraiment pas 'Jacques'," Dan began to explain to the boy in his native tongue, and he seemed to understand and smiled at Dan for his consideration, "it’s just what they picked because it sounded a bit more royal and Scottish than ‘King Dan’ – could you imagine that?”

The boy looked down at his feet, sadly, “it’s not my place to imagine, King Dan.” The boy was definitely from French Court.

“Well, I'll teach you - I’m not ‘King Dan’ either,” the boy’s embarrassment was only further inflamed as Court guests giggled and gossiped about this silly servant boy, who was clearly unaware of the Scottish customs.

Dan did want to make a good impression on them, but this wasn’t quite what he had in mind.

“You can use ‘Your Majesty’, ‘Your Grace’, and hey,” he explained, completely unsarcastically, and then paused to deplete his voice to a friendly whisper so the guests couldn’t catch it, “my friends call me just ‘Dan’, you can use that too.”

The boy with the black hair picked up his chin to smile at the fair King, and Dan smiled back before giving the boy a nod of encouragement and mouthing him the sentence he'd need to speak in Scots to announce the arrival to the Court, which seemed to restore the boy's confidence.

“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen, James the sixth, King of Scots!” The black haired footman announced in a voice that was so changed, so booming and confident from the timid one that Dan had conversed with before. Dan felt a bit of pride for the boy, and smiled as he moved to greet his Court.

Perhaps he and the nameless black haired boy could work to improve his Scots together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, the real King James VI was fluent in several languages, so Dan can speak to his cute footman in his native tongue:  
> Scots (native)  
> French  
> Greek  
> Latin  
> English
> 
> He had a passion for learning like his mother, Mary. Although, she never learned English but may have spoken a few words as she became friends with the family of her jailor towards the end of her life


	5. Dusk of the Regency

Dan was trapped in his chair as an incredibly boring private audience with Lord Morton continued. The heavy metal crown on head and a long regal coat extending from his back and gathering on the floor made movement too labourious. But this was the way of the monarchy; power in precedence.

Morton was clearly beating about the bush with something, and Dan felt that he knew what it was.

“Morton, I’m aware that my mother’s catholic supporters, the Hamilton family and some other clans, still believe that her abdication was unjust and under duress,” Dan spoke, “what I don’t know is why you’re always focused on threats to my reign, instead of foreign policy or finances or any other important issues. What are you doing about growing tension with Spain, for example?”

“Your Majesty, the fact is that I always worked to keep threats, namely your mother, away from your throne,” he worded carefully, “I’ve condemned Mary’s supporters, pushed back against a civil war, all this for _my_ King!”

“I’m not sure that’s entirely true, Lord Morton,” Dan stated coldly, instilling fear in the eyes of the man before him.

The young King rose from his chair, carrying the heavy garments with him and attempting to make it appear as effortless as possible. Dan took a piece of parchment from his writing table.

“My spies in England intercepted this,” Dan said angrily, “it has your personal seal on it,” he stated, waving the letter at Morton.

“You’ve been writing to Elizabeth.” The accusation came out raw and terrified Morton.

“Let’s read it together, yeah?” Dan smiled.

_Knowing Elizabeth’s intentions for Scotland, I am moved to accept the Regency._

_I hope that I will have her favour and protection and maintenance, especially when I ask for the payment of our soldiers._

_JamesR_

“I now KNOW that you wouldn’t have gotten the regency without Elizabeth’s gold, her cannons and force! You conspired with the enemy to take your power and secured it by preventing any chance of my mother gaining support!” Dan shouted at the man as he felt his heart hit by betrayal, all of which made Morton’s eyes widen fearfully.

“I prevented civil war! Little Daniel, the real fact is – there is a difference between those who think that have power,” the man said in a patronising and sinister way, “and those who really hold it.”

Dan crawled back into his seat and his clothes as he felt his grip loosen on the upper hand in the argument.

“Yes, I asked the enemy for resources. Yes, I sent diplomats to argue that it was in Elizabeth’s interest to support me in crushing Mary’s forces,” Morton pleaded, in a calm manner that terrified young Dan as he sank further into the armchair. “You’ve got no proof that these letters are real.”

“You’re dismissed, and I will find a way to prove that you’re just as power hungry as my uncle and just as disinterested in showing me true loyalty.”

“Get out before I throw you out, Morton.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of Morton's regency is debatable, some say it ended in 1581 when the King assumed proper control of his council, and others say it officially ended in 1578 when he took the position of Lord Admiral. Some say he was deposed in 1580 instead.
> 
> For the purposes of this story, Dan is assuming control from the Regent, but it's undeniable that Morton continued to exercise much influence over the country even after his official tenure as Regent ended.


	6. Royal Guest

 

Dan waited in the castle courtyard with the other nobles as an ornate coach pulled through the gatehouse and came to a halt. Dan’s awkward and ungraceful footman, the one with the dark black hair, seemed to have improved little in the art form of service since Dan arrived at Court earlier in the year.

He stumbled off the back of the coach and opened the door to reveal an extraordinarily handsome older man. His ornate blue jacket complimented his pale skin and his legs were attractively elongated by his incredibly tight stockings. Dan’s heart skipped a beat as the man’s face came into view.

Thankfully the footman didn’t seem to need Dan to mouth him the Scots words for this announcement, which was a relief as Dan wasn’t sure he was capable of thinking.

“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen, Ésme Stewart, Lord of Aubigny!” The black haired footman announced.

The other guests seemed to have noticed Ésme’s extremely good looks as well, the way his hair was kept confidently out of his face, and some even chatted about his impeccable fashion too. Dan didn’t disagree with them.

Dan excitedly rushed forward to greet the beautiful man.

“Welcome to my Court, Lord Aubigny. I look forward to making your acquaintance, perhaps over dinner tonight?” Dan suggested excitedly to the man. He had to internally slap himself for being so forward and probably alienating the poor man. The chatter about Dan’s request piped up with the other guests.

“Your Majesty, that would be wonderful,” Ésme graciously accepted, “we are cousins, and I feel bad that we’ve never met. I’ve heard much about you.”

Dan cocked his head, slightly surprised when he detected Ésme’s warm and flawless acceptance of Dan’s own directness.

The two headed inside to prepare for dinner, discussing Ésme’s travel from his home country, France, across the sea. The conversation flowed so easily, and Dan couldn’t pinpoint a thing about the man that didn’t enchant him.

The black haired footman sighed in defeat as he found himself all alone in the courtyard, with nothing but the soft and patient sounds of the horses at the front of the coach to fill the air.

 

Wine flowed freely in the large dining room as the Court guests moved in to take their seats for the feast. Dan took his seat on the raised platform at the front of the room where the King’s table was.

Ésme entered the hall, a little nervous as he realised that he knew no one at Court, and he certainly didn’t know who was friends with whom and which groups of powerful nobles were friends or foes to the French. He awkwardly stood by a fireplace and sipped on a goblet of wine while pretending to read an old note he had in his pocket. Over and over again.

Dan moved from his position at the front of the room to greet the man. He felt bad that he was interrupting him in reading what looked like something very important.

“Lord Aubigny, I hope I’m not interrupting,” Dan said as he approached the man.

“No, not at all, Your Majesty. In truth I don’t know anyone at your Court, and this note is just something I had in my pocket,” Ésme awkwardly explained, blushing slightly as he realised that he’d confessed his social incompetence to a King.

“Well, if I’m going to be your first friend at Court, then please call me just ‘Dan’,” he said, detecting a bit of discomfort in the older man at the idea of being on informal grounds so quickly. “It’s just annoying to use the official titles once you talk to someone for a while,” Dan explained further. Ésme’s blushed at the implication that he’d get to know more about the young King.

“Of course, Your Ma- I mean, Dan. And in return, for your... uhm... Kind offer, you can call me ‘Ésme’,” he said. It wasn't an offer, why did Ésme say it like that? He frowned at himself.

“Good, I certainly plan on it!” Why had Dan said that part? 

 

Hours had passed and the two men were stocked full of wine, roast pork, and a deliciously smooth serving of buttery potatoes. They chatted away endlessly with one another, and Dan was utterly fascinated with Ésme’s stories.

“So you’ve really met her? You know Catherine De’ Medici?!” Dan asked excitedly. The young King relished stories that concerned his mother in any way, and Queen Catherine of France had been a friend and mother, even if only in law, to Mary during her time at French Court.

“Oh Dan, she’s absolutely terrifying. Do not get on that woman’s bad side, if there’s someone she doesn’t like, then you can be sure they’ll just disappear within the week,” Ésme explained as he shoveled another potato into his mouth, "the woman is deadly with poison, you wouldn't believe. One time she brought in hand gloves laced with arsenic!"

The danger of this illusive and savagely conspiring character excited Dan, but more so, the honest and genuine character that Ésme allowed him to see. It was truly rare.

“All I’ve gotten is a strictly Scottish upbringing but really I’m jealous, Ésme, I think I want to travel around and see the things you’ve seen one day,” Dan dreamed, and now that they were talking so fondly to each other, he knew that his growing attraction to this man wasn’t exactly blamable on the alcohol.

“Dan, you do have a country to manage. And even in France we heard that you’re on bad terms with one of your councilmen,” Ésme pried, in a seeking way.

“You’re talking about Lord Morton?” Dan clarified, receiving a nod from Ésme and continuing, “he was Regent, but now I’m sort of terrified that he’s too drunk on power to keep my reign safe.”

“Aw Dan, well you know that I can be here to keep you safe, and I have friends in France who are friends of yours to help in that too…” The couple smiled at each other as Ésme extended his hand underneath the table to hold Dan’s delicate fingers in his own warm palm.

“I’ll be here for you, Dan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ésme Stewart was the King's first man crush, and it's said that all of his relationships with men after that were an effort to capture the love he felt for Stewart. Get ready for some serious angst.
> 
> EDIT: I did some restructuring of the chapters and separated some time skips that were previously clumped together. I did this because I want time skips to occur only after chapter breaks and not during chapters. Hope it hasn't caused confusion


	7. The Privy Council

“Dan, please just stay calm! Listen to my breathing,” Ésme stopped to breathe slowly in and out to allow Dan the opportunity to follow him, “just listen and try to match it, you’ll be alright, trust me.”

Ésme held the distraught boy in his arms as he felt Dan’s heart slow to a normal place. The poor boy was terrified of beginning his rule, officially having to announce that his minority was over, in front of a Privy Council of men whom he wasn’t sure he could trust after so long away from the castle.

“Thank you,” Dan whispered back softly through the tears of worry that had built up in his eyes. Ésme knew that the first meeting with the Privy Council would determine whether its members would respect Dan’s authority or attempt to undermine it. Setting the tone for his rule was unequivocally important.

He supposed that this sort of emotional burden was why Scotland didn’t allow minors to rule.

“Ésme, I want you there with me when I meet with the Council today,” Dan quietly requested, no tone of command in his voice, “and I don’t ask as a King, I’m asking as your friend.”

“Dan, I’ll always be there. You know that.”

The two shared a smile as Ésme squeezed his companion and settled them both in for a smoother afternoon.

 

Dan briskly walked the corridors to the Council Chambers, dragging a rather long coat behind his confident stride. From his position a few steps behind the King, Ésme remarked that it indeed made him look older, more mature, powerful, as was the intention. The golden circlet crown jutting out of Dan’s hair felt almost an extension of the man himself.

The two arrived at the chamber doors. The guards outfitted in plated armour were far too intimidating for Dan to think of looking back to Ésme for any further reassurance before the meeting.

Dan felt his heart leap out of his chest as he shivered upon hearing the heavy metal hinges swing open and the large, heavy doors move to reveal a dimly lit room containing a crowd of older men. Dan forced himself through past the threshold to stand at the head of a long rectangular table.

Ésme took Dan’s hand which rested behind his coat, nervously twitching, and squeezed it as Dan exhaled to greet the Privy Council.

“My lords, may you please assemble for today’s meeting,” Dan lightly advised the men who were close enough to hear him. Dan kicked himself for not waiting to gather the vocal strength to make himself be heard by all. They soon crowded around the table, one in particular, Lord Morton, taking his seat first among the group and completely ignoring the King in his presence.

Dan cleared his throat as the other councilors looked to Morton with confused and worried expressions on their faces, while the incorrigible Earl simply slouched into his chair, completely relaxed. Morton smiled at Dan as he stood at the head of the table, unsure of what to do.

After a considerably awkward silence, Ésme stepped forward and, looking at Morton in particular, spoke.

“May you _all_ please stand to inaugurate our good King to this first meeting of the Privy Council,” Ésme requested, with a bite in his tone as his eyes narrowed on Morton, who appeared pleased with his actions but unable to persist with them.

Dan at last took his seat once all the lords were standing, then raising his hands and requesting that the others join him. He felt Ésme move to take his place to the right of Dan’s ornate wooden chair.

“I meet before you all today to announce that, as I have reached the official end of my minority, I shall now assume the burden of administration,” Dan began, slowly and carefully phrasing his thoughts as he tried with all his might to force his fear at controlling these men from showing on his face.

The faces looking back at him, all silent and hanging on Dan’s every word which seemed to pierce the air in the room. All nervously awaiting what he’d say next. Having that power over them gave Dan some of the confidence he needed to assume a different tone. To assert himself over the men.

No, in the eyes of the lords, Dan’s face remained relaxed and unblemished. Regal.

“In gratitude, I thank the service of our  _widely_ popular former Regent Morton, who to reiterate,” Dan paused as he stared his enemy in the eye, “has officially  _resigned_ as Regent.”  

And none of the Lords had anything further to say on the matter as they waited silently and obediently for the next announcement.

 

Barely ten minutes after the council adjourned, Ésme and Dan had taken the royal chambers and shared a celebration, with the older man picking his younger companion up by the waist and hugging him close to his chest as the two chuckled and laughed.

“Did you see Morton’s face? I don’t think he was expecting to be dressed down like a child being put to bed without his supper,” Ésme laughed as the two settled into armchairs in Dan’s private rooms.

“Oh Ésme, I really don’t think I could have done it without you there. I thought I’d never get their respect after Morton tried to publically undermine me like that,” Dan said, expressing his gratitude in his warm tone. “I’ve never had anyone support me like that, or anyone really… I’m sure you know why.”

Ésme smiled weakly at Dan, because he did know why and it hurt to think that Dan never had any real parental figures in his life.

“What about Lord and Lady Mar? When you were a child? I hear they raised you alongside their own,” Ésme questioned.

“Like any parents, legitimate or not to a royal child, they were rarely there. It was mostly governesses, private tutors. Although I guess I shared some companionship with their son. He’s succeeded to his father’s position as Earl of Mar, now that he’s dead…” Dan winced at the painful memories of Lord Mar being carried through the castle at Stirling, a gunshot wound in his neck and blood spilling out as soldiers, physicians, seers even, tried to revive him. But they’d never treated someone for a gunshot wound before.

“Well, you’re not alone anymore Dan, I hope you see that,” Ésme said, reaching over to hold Dan’s hand as the younger boy radiated happiness at the thought. Ésme even noticed his cute dimples poke out at him, which he’d somehow missed before.

Dan gave his companion’s hand a squeeze as he escorted him to the door, not necessarily caring what the guards might think at a gentleman leaving the King’s chambers. Dan knew he couldn’t be realistically blamed for inviting a man so handsome into his chambers, even if things did go further than a warm discussion.

 

**Whitehall Palace, England**

 

Elizabeth sat at her writing table late into the night as she considered a pile of documents which needed to be signed. Death warrants for a group of violent Catholics, concerns over an uprising in the North of Mary’s supporters, requests for troops to fight the Spanish in Holland, the usual diplomatic and tiring nonsense.

The Queen was frightened out of her restless mood as the study’s doors were swung open.

“The Honourable Baron of Burghley, Your Majesty,” a footman announced as Elizabeth’s chief adviser entered rather urgently.

“Ah, William Cecil, to what do I owe this pleasure?” She questioned, keen to move through the conversation as quickly as possible.

“Your Majesty, we’ve received word that Regent Morton of Scotland has been forced to resign. The King of Scots has declared himself of age,” Cecil finished, as the Queen before him tapped her fingers on the desk in annoyance.

“No, this could not be allowed to happen so soon, you assured me that we would maintain English influence in Scotland, yet how can we? Daniel, the King of Scots… he is beyond our influence,”

“No matter, we will simply work to find another foothold, Your Maj-”

“No enough,” Elizabeth said sternly to silence the ramblings, “this Morton’s failure to maintain the regency, with our more than obvious backing of him, reflects on our diplomatic weakness!” The Queen became emotionally overcome as she processed the failure of Morton’s regency. “Do you not see!?”

“We sent Lord Morton gold, we sent him men, we sent him cannons, the resources to fight the Queen of Scots and install the new lasting peace between our nations, nothing more than that, Your Majesty,” Cecil argued back.

“Yes, we did all this but also committed my name and my support of his Protestant rule as well,” the Queen whispered, tired and defeated, as she considered her next strategic move while Cecil swayed in place, unsure of what would come next from the ill-tempered Queen. "What do you think Daniel will try to do to me when he finds out that his very own Godmother, his family's longstanding rival, bought his government's political power for her own?"

Before Cecil could argue with Elizabeth’s personal tone, before he could question whether her concern was for her reputation as Queen or England’s as a Protestant, respectable, sovereign state among a sea of Catholic ones, she fired a new question at the Baron.

“And what of the situation in Holland, Lord Burghley? Spain has long since expressed a desire to see England ruled by the Vatican once more. If they see that we’ve lost any sort of peace or alliance with Scotland, what is to prevent them from crossing the channel from their Dutch territory to invade while we are at our _most_ uncertain?” Elizabeth questioned, a look of worry begging for reassurance rather than the truth.

“Nothing, Your Majesty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter for 1579! I've done most of the research for the next decade of Dan's turbulent life, which will see Spain's growing fury at Elizabeth's stubborn (yet effective) Protestant rule, and a lot of political rivalry as Scotland reaches another religious turning point...


	8. Balancing Act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been gone for a while, it's true. I've seen some growing support for this fic which is what has made me return to it so thanks for that! I've spent time writing other fics and ignoring this one because I've been debating what to do with this idea. I'm invested in the story and research, so I've decided that I will be writing it twice. You probably noticed that this has skipped over a lot of prologue to do with Mary and has rushed through lots of plotpoints, so given that this chapter is the start of the story beyond the prologue, I will be putting more words into fully explaining situations and characters (thoughts/feelings). I plan to elongate chapters and make a proper go of it now that we've reached the end of the prologue.

Wine flowed freely in the ornate dining hall as Court guests filed into the room to socialise. The castle was full of good conversation and laughter, the ladies enjoying their drinks in small cliques and the men bellowing about some wager or another. The hundreds of candles inhabiting the grand chandeliers hanging from the intricate ceiling filled the long room with a pleasant and kind incandescence, one which made goblets glow and reflected nicely upon the rich jewels of guests. The lusciously upholstered armchairs and the red theme of the room glistened in their light.

Dan found himself waiting nervously beside a table stocked full of exotic French grapes and an entire roasted pig. How that fit within the castle’s budget he wasn’t quite sure. He did enjoy these feasts, the fine wine and food no matter how expensive it was, however the social aspect of it could quickly become overwhelming. If alcohol were Dan’s social lubricant, then his rank would be its poison. He made sure to dilute such poison with copious amounts of wine, so emptied a goblet of its contents and snappily requested another from a passing footman. Ultimately when looking at the King, one saw not ‘Dan’ but someone else entirely.

Being a public figure tended to have this effect whereby those who did not already know him personally would assume that his friendship were unattainable and perhaps inappropriate. Butting into conversations even at Court often resulted in those already involved seizing up and scrambling to change their usually promiscuous conversations to something more pious. They flushed to use the right styles in addressing him which made the contact completely impersonal and rather professional instead. There was a certain coldness to it. It prevented him from connecting with others. They’d make a fuss, they’d stop being themselves. Dan winced at what could be if these complications didn’t exist. His rank was poison.

He always earned stares from those who knew his face whenever he ventured outside of the castle. As many governesses had told him, he belonged to the public. His every move would be scrutinised and watched by others. Adversaries would rally themselves around his often public mistakes. Despite the summer air hanging over Edinburgh during the nights, Dan naturally felt this crippling cold of having no true and benevolent friends.

This feeling had alleviated somewhat when Dan first sighted Ésme at Court. The two discussed their lives at length and for the first time in Dan’s life, his rank and the publicised nature of his life did not complicate it. He felt his young heart flutter at the thought of having found a true friend in Ésme; a man who was still himself.

“Your Majesty.” Dan pulled himself out of his deep thoughts as a voice extended its reach from behind him, “it’s wonderful to see you again.” The boy’s face softened when he realised it was Ésme, even breaking the regal façade and letting out a lonely smile. “Would you like to sit to dinner with me?”

“Come on Ésme, I told you not to call me that!” Dan breathed out through his smile with shallow frustration as he turned to set another of his goblets on the table and place his hands on the man’s hips, “If we sit next to each other then I just want you to act like yourself. My equal.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re hardly yourself tonight and we are in front of the entire Court,” Ésme began to explain as Dan faced his friend head on and beckoned further explanation and argument with some hurt and frustration twinkling in his eyes, “I was merely thinking that we should strive for decency in our friendship, especially as people have seen me entering your personal study and chambers.” The candles tended to make his telltale eyes obvious.

“But-”

“No ‘buts’, Your Grace,” he cut in, removing Dan’s hands from his body and placing them at his sides, “I apologise but in this moment you are the King of Scots.” Ésme’s voice became empty and cold, like so many others who forced protocol into interaction with him. It was not the way the man ever imagined he’d talk to someone he wanted to call his friend.

“Ésme, I want so badly to just be me, and to just be me _with you_ , why can’t you let me?” Dan begged.

“Kings do not beg, you are ‘James the Sixth’ first and ‘Daniel Stuart’, my friend, second,” Ésme bowed his head to wash away the sadness on his face, “James Rex _must_ come first.”

“In that case, Lord Aubigny,” Dan said, collecting his conscience and pulling his head up to fix his sight on a glowing candle behind Ésme’s ear, “I bid you goodnight and hope sincerely that you shall enjoy tonight’s festivities.” Dan made himself scarce as he walked to his position at head of a long dining table to call the guests to sit to dinner. Lord Morton remained standing by his chair as guests sat down, proposing a toast with his full goblet.

“Our King has returned to his Court, to take his throne. Long live the King!”

Dan smiled falsely at those around him who were cheering and chanting as he hid his pain inside his own goblet.

 

The banquet had progressed without much trouble, Dan making some simple conversation with the Lord Ruthven who sat nearby. He seemed a constantly frustrated man which Dan put down to his position on the Privy Council as Treasurer. Dan sighed as he thought that perhaps some frustration could be channeled into better managing the royal purse.

“Your Majesty, perhaps the next banquet could be a tad more frugal?” Ruthven asked cautiously. Dan smiled devilishly as he realised that the man would not explicitly deny him his entire roasted pig nor the hundreds of candles that made the room sparkle. No, instead he would simply object and sweat about the numbers and the ledgers when Dan would ultimately deny him cuts to the budget. Dan could not bring himself to feel guilty about the need to adequately equip the castle for these functions. Besides, the pig was extremely tasty.

“I’m sure we can account for the expenses, Lord Ruthven,” Dan reassured with an amused smile, knowing that Ruthven would become silently irritated, “it’s all worth it if you look at the happiness it brings to our guests,” Dan explained with a nod as Ruthven attempted to politely argue. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Ruthven seemed unable to form a retort, wrapping up the conversation with Dan rather politely and quickly entering another.

Dan continued to sip on a now full goblet as he looked out to the rest of the dining hall before him. He noticed Ésme sitting abnormally close to Lord Morton, picking his food up with a fork and allowing it to fall back to the plate mindlessly. One might mistake the two for having a conversation, although Dan could tell that Ésme wasn’t particularly amused.

Dan sighed as he thought to their earlier argument. The boy did feel a heavy responsibility to all the people in the room and a moral obligation to put them first as their King. Part of him did long to be a normal and healthy child without these burdens. He used to believe that being in such a position as King was something of a fairytale. The pampering, the servants, everything, was all intoxicating to him as a babe. Learning about the consequences of his mother’s many political failures from numerous governesses and tutors had changed some of that feeling. Her controversial marriage to his father, Lord Darnley, her even more disastrous marriage to Lord Bothwell, and her inability to balance personal indulgences with duty surely ruined her.

Dan was constantly reminded of the privileges of royalty and in hand of the high price to be paid for them. The price being choice and freedom. He began to understand the precarious nature of wearing the crown as he grew older. It had only been some months at Edinburgh, though the balancing act of trying to keep the heavy circlet from falling off the top of his head was ever present. He could never be caught in a diminishing light, nor allow an adversary to trip him and shake his balance. He thought of the pressure upon his mother to have a child and beat Elizabeth, to become unshakable. Yet in the end, even more of a balancing act than securing the crown on one’s head was that of personality. Dan shuddered that Ésme could have been right – Dan himself wasn’t old enough to see what failure to separate the crown and the individual did to his mother. He was petrified of being one to do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right so there it is! I hope you noticed some of the writing changes I set out in my beginning notes. To elaborate, I was debating writing out this 16th Century idea as fanfiction on AO3 as I've actually come to realise that I want to write this idea as a legitimate novel that I may publish. Instead of re-vamping this text ('The King's Court'), the novel will be a completely rewritten with different focus and structure, under a different title, and different author name (obviously). It will have no phan element and will be purely historical fiction. I'm doing this because I want to implicate Mary's earlier life - I skipped Mary's story in 'The King's Court' because I know that AO3 readers are here for phan / other fandoms and NOT necessarily for Mary.
> 
> Therefore, 'The King's Court' will act as a 'trial run' to improve my writing skills and for self-teaching about how to write historical fiction before I write the actual novel. When I go to write the novel, it will draw on ideas and plotpoints that I think worked effectively in this story, but it won't mirror this story. I won't publish it online under this pseudonym, and that's another reason why I'm continuing this story on AO3 - because I still want the fanfic community to be able to access some part of my writing and this idea.


	9. Hint of Mischief

The winds raged outside the castle walls as Dan looked from the window in his study to the town below. The lights flickered in the darkness as the storm consumed the hills around Edinburgh. Rain spattered against the glass and trickled down it slowly, which Dan found incredibly therapeutic though also ensnaring. He didn’t really like that his job, the one that he was born to which he couldn’t effectively give up in favour of another, required staying inside the gloomy and lonely castle at all times. Dan supposed that he would have Ésme to keep him company, even if the two were struggling with issues in their own personal relationship as of late.

Dan pulled his head away from the window and rushed to compose himself in an armchair by his desk as the wooden door to the room grated open. The desk was littered with warrants, edicts, and letters – it looked convincing enough that he was busy.

“Your Grace, were you requiring anything?” the footman asked, answering Dan’s earlier call for him and stepping into the study. He bowed his head to his King as he did so. From subjects and servants, Dan believed he enjoyed the nods of respect, though despite Ésme’s lecture on the persona of a King, he still winced to see his friends follow strict protocol like a lowly footman would be expected to in this fashion.

“Yes, I’d like you to fetch one of my coachmen – specifically the French one with the blackened hair,” Dan asked quickly after pulling himself from his thoughts. He had first noticed the cute footman months ago when he arrived at the castle, and to say he was curious about the boy was an understatement. He found himself feeling proud of the boy whenever he announced arriving guests in a convincing and strong way, and he seemed to be learning the native language at an impressive rate.

“Shall I also ready the state coach for His Majesty’s journey?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Dan replied, grating his teeth. He only wanted to summon and talk to the strange footman with the black hair, not actually travel anywhere. Especially in this weather, God he could almost berate this footman for such a stupid question. The other footman however had been intriguing, and with his relationship with Ésme under strain, Dan only wanted some company and to learn more about the foreigner. It wasn’t too long before a shy footman with height to rival Dan’s own was pushed into the room and awkwardly shifting with his hands holding each other in his lap. The black haired footman was dressed in his crimson livery with silver velvet embroidery, fitting his incredibly fine physique. Dan did like the way the castle servants were dressed, so much so that he found his eyes being drawn down the other boy’s body towards his breeches.

The footman only stood silently swaying, unsure of what to do without appearing especially rude. Dan snapped himself from his gazing, “I’m so sorry, I just uh… you know, wanted to make sure you were the right one?” Dan awkwardly stated, hoping his explanation would be sufficient for the boy, who still stood in front of the desk saying nothing. Dan’s eyes dropped and he let out a chuckle – of course the boy wouldn’t speak first or question the legitimacy of the excuse. Dan was the King and this boy was a footman. His rank was still poison, especially to the working class.

“I apologise for that, I called you because I wanted to…” Dan paused as he attempted to think about what he actually wanted to say, what reason he could give for summoning this awfully awkward boy who clearly had no idea why he was in the King’s study. Or even in the living quarters of the castle at all. In fact, Dan had to process what he even wanted from the boy. “I just wanted to… inquire about your position!”

“I’m sorry Your Majesty? My position?” the footman clarified, as if confounded and incredibly caught off guard. He began to worry that Dan’s tone signaled his termination, or perhaps a stern punishment for his lack of linguistic ability.

“Well, I figured you were adjusting to my Court and that maybe you felt alone being away from your home country,” Dan explained, internally slapping himself for now having to further clarify why he was concerned for a lowly footman. The boy breathed out his bated breath gratefully, not even aware of how odd this all sounded coming from a King. “I only ask because I want to ensure everyone in my household feels comfortable.”

“Well, Your Majesty, I’m happy with my position and I feel I am learning the language well, if that is what you mean?” the footman said, at this point overwhelmed by what was happening before him. He was still in some sort of shock about the situation. He determined that he was not being terminated or thrown out, which left his curious mind wondering desperately what the young King could want.

“I’m glad – you know I’ve been impressed with how quickly you’ve learned our language. I was considering transferring you to a personal attendant of mine so we can consolidate those skills,” Dan weakly suggested as his excuse. He grew more curious about the footman by the minute, and he would love one as pretty as the black haired one to look at every day. The way the livery hugged his waist was more than enough to satisfy his eyes even in this moment.

The boy’s breath hitched as he contemplated the offer, eyes widening as he realised what being an attendant to the King could mean for him. The status of a footman greatly increased if spent in service of the monarch, and he may even be granted some special concessions granted by a personal relationship – Dan knew it was a big proposition and not to expect and answer immediately.

“Yes,” the boy whispered out, “yes, of course I’d be happy to!” he stated even louder, not bothering to filter the excitement from his voice. He controlled himself and reined back his wild emotions upon considering who he was talking to, returning to the shy and slightly embarrassed boy he had been before. Dan blushed at how adorable the footman was being.

“I’m so sorry that I haven’t even asked for your name,” Dan apologised shamefully as he allowed his heart to become excited over having this boy around.

“Philipe, my name is Philipe. Although you may call me ‘Phil’ if you’d like,” the boy said, smiling broadly. Dan thought that Phil’s inability to control his emotions was endearing, the same going for his enthusiasm to share his nickname with a King. Dan’s eyes sparkled with opportunity as he realised that perhaps Phil could enter a more personal friendship with him, or at least distract him from the reality of his rank. It would be a welcome change following the disaster of the previous banquet.

“It’s nice to meet you officially Phil. I’ll have some of the other servants familiarise you with my quarters and chambers, but I’m sure you’ll work these things out,” Dan stated, beaming at the boy. The smile on his face was a priceless memory to hold onto – the day that a footman acted as though their King were a fellow human being. “I also hoped that we’d be able to continue your study of Scots together, I think it’d be a welcome change from signing these warrants and other boring daily duties.”

Phil averted his eyes from Dan as he could feel a redness creeping onto his face at the offer of the fair King. He was surprised that he cared for what a King would otherwise only ever consider him to be a tool for his personal comfort.

“I think I’d like that, Your Grace.”

Dan smiled at Phil, not necessarily annoyed at his use of the style, simply meeting his eyes, “well Phil, when we’re talking like we are now as friends, maybe you can be comfortable with calling me ‘Dan’.”

The boys gave each other pleasant smiles as they found something to admire within each other, a rejection of protocol and a hint of mischief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to use this chapter as a bit of a filler to take down the intensity and also highlight the King's need for personal relationships and cement the beginnings of his homosexual desires. I'm not sure whether he had close relationships with servants, but it's usually expected that those closest to a monarch build some sort of understanding between each other. I find it funny how this fic is reversing roles - I'm sure the real Dan treated Phil like he was a King when they first talked, because he was basically a trashcan let's be real lol
> 
> I wonder how many of you picked up on the way Dan changes tone depending on his persona? I really want to separate 'Jacobus Rex' (literally 'King James' in Latin) and 'Dan'. I draw a lot of parallels with the actual Dan Howell - I'm aware that it's hard for him to make genuine connections and trust people because of his status in the YouTube community and his fame. You could say he doesn't want people to treat him differently and stop being themselves around him because of his rank ;)  
> I liken the personality crisis of a monarch to Dan's struggle to maintain his on-camera Danisnotonfire personality - the idea is to never let the public see the real you and to give them only the bits that make you more attractive to the public. Maybe Dan and a 16th century King would have a great understanding for each other.


	10. Royal Courtship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I've decided with this chapter to have a focus on developing emotions rather than necessarily plot, but it will all tie in together in following chapters. Elizabeth's advisers and Privy Councillors will be very important to the story so I also thought I'd hint at them for the next chapter too.  
> This chapter is quite a lot longer than others, which is my goal going forward as the story picks up. I feel that a chapter of 3000-4000+ words is going to be more effective for the flow of ideas and more economical as I like to start each chapter with at least a few hundred words of description. Obviously starting a chapter with 200 words of description is pretty stupid if the chapter is only 1000 words long so that's my goal there. Hopefully the drastically increased length sits well with you, but I'm still debating whether I want to separate scenes with chapter breaks or not.

The English winter was often cruel. However, grand royal palaces did look lovely in the snow. In brief lapses of judgment, Elizabeth was thankful that she wasn’t Queen of Scotland—she imagined the winter would be unbearable that far north. She appreciated moments of contentment like this one where she believed that her ambition was sated and that she needed no more security than what she already had. This sentiment typically died merely hours after the Queen’s return from a peaceful stroll. Her advisers were far too ruthless to allow her to be content. More power, more influence, fewer enemies, are always desirable no matter how much one might have already achieved. Elizabeth desperately wondered if the advisers would ever be satisfied or if she’d ever sleep without a knife under her pillow.

They were unapologetically ruthless because it was rarely the mission of an adviser to tame or care for the emotions of a monarch. However, Elizabeth found that of her most trusted advisers, Sir Francis Walsingham did this fearfully well. He succeeded in becoming close to her long ago where nearly all men had failed. He accepted, at least in part, the virtues of Elizabeth’s refusal to marry and produce an heir. But he still liked to maintain that a marriage and heir were strategic cards to play should she find herself falling upon troubling times. Elizabeth wondered whether her advisers knew that few women her age produced children. Men were probably not concerned with the “biological weakness” of their female monarch.

In any case, as Walsingham told her in the beginning, “the crown will change everything”. During these strolls in the palace gardens, Elizabeth often finds herself remembering life as it was when she and her half-sister were just a princess and just a lady. It hardly seemed like she was just a little girl once upon a time, playing with just another little girl.

That was before the poison of the crown and its rank took form.

Elizabeth and Mary Tudor used to play kindly together in these very gardens, often throwing snowballs at each other with awful accuracy at this time of year. The Queen had wandered far from the palace by now, where the trees were either bare or their evergreen branches stuffed full of white powder. As a child, the Queen didn’t feel a need to safeguard against the bitter winter air as she did now. Perhaps she’d grown cold and heartless since then. Elizabeth smiled at the memory of her then-pleasant sister. It was one of the only decent memories of family she had left. Familial memories were more often than not tainted by the sour turn their friendship took in later years. She pulled her multiple layers of coats and cloaks towards her body for warmth as she began to shiver.

Walsingham spoke profound truth in the beginning. The crown did change Mary Tudor when it landed on her head; the people had called her ‘Bloody Mary’. Bloody Mary was not a Good Samaritan despite her fervent Catholic beliefs. Bloody Mary would have massacred half of England to purify it of Protestantism as easily as she drew a breath. Elizabeth learned more about betrayal and distrust from her own flesh and blood than she hoped to have learned in a lifetime. “Half flesh and blood”, her father and half-sister came to insist. She was horrified but depressingly unsurprised when she became acquainted with the inside of a dirty cell in the Tower of London. She came to know a coldness in her heart far harsher than even this snowy day as she rotted away in that cell. Perhaps Elizabeth’s father would say her experiences had hardened her into a woman who would one day be Queen, albeit a bastard one.

 _The prices we pay_.

When Walsingham learned of this, it followed naturally that Elizabeth did not want to marry. He understood her desire to avoid heirs and family, even if he did not agree that it was best for the realm. Hence, the crown had changed everything.

Perhaps she would rather face the coldness of a Scottish winter than brave any of her troubles in England. Elizabeth spotted an envoy riding out to her from beyond the tree which affirmed her thoughts—a Scottish winter may very well be better than whatever terror this envoy may bring.

“Your Majesty, please forgive me for this interruption – you’re needed at the palace,” the messenger urgently requested.

“Whatever for? I was enjoying the grounds  _away_  from the castle,” Elizabeth shot back, rather frustrated.

“His Highness Prince Francis, Duke of Anjou, has arrived from France, madam. He’s requesting permission to join you at Court.” The reflection silence Elizabeth liked to enjoy on these walks was instantly shattered. Politics tended to ruin her day.

“From France?” She paused to consider before recomposing herself. “Very well, but before you have me pulled before the Frenchman, send for Walsingham and Burghley,” Elizabeth ordered with a hint of curiosity hidden behind an eternally disappointed façade. She did wonder for what reason the royal son of Henry of France and Catherine De’ Medici was here. She had to foresight to yell one final command as she considered the nature of his visit, “And do have my servants prepared to tame my hair!”

The end of this stroll would be particularly peaceful, as always. She sighed in weariness.

 

 

Phil opened his mouth widely to see clearly where he’d need to put his tongue in relation to his teeth. Dan giggled as he continued to point to the corresponding spot on his own face, watching Phil fail to put it in the right place. The challenge of fine tuning Phil’s spoken Scots was difficult—the two spent an awful lot of time laughing at each other. Dan did enjoy the lack of care Phil gave to his station; he liked being laughed at sometimes. Others would probably live in fear of being drawn and quartered if they were to allow themselves to do the same.

“No, Phil…” Dan caught his breath as the laughter died down. “You have to put your tongue to the front of your teeth.” He opening his own mouth wide enough for Phil to see where his tongue contacted his teeth. “The word ‘teeth’ is a good one to practice, try saying the last two letters!”

“Danimsorryicantdoit,” Phil spat out as his tongue tied itself in knots and the fingers previously aiding his embouchure somehow became implicated. “I’m sorry, we never use that sound in France.” Phil withdrew his fingers from his mouth where he had accidentally bitten down on them, taking a moment to reset his body and mind before trying again. “Teef… teh… fee?”

Dan cackled loudly at Phil’s increasing displeasure at the ‘th’ sound. He had some sympathy, knowing there were a handful of words he couldn’t say in French himself.

“Alright, I apologise for laughing at you—let’s try something else. Have a go at ‘antidisestablishmentarianism’, it’s slightly easier.” Phil’s eyes went wide as Dan’s lips danced across the numerous syllables. He wasn’t sure whether Dan, or anyone, would even know what such a ridiculous word meant.

“I am  _not_  saying whatever that is. You can’t make me. Jamais plus s’il te plait.” He rolled his eyes and pouted. The fool even had enough nerve to cross his arms and face away from Dan, who only continued to laugh. What Dan found simply adorable was that Phil used the informal register in French. “If only your advisers could see you now! I know rulers can be cruel but you are the devil, Daniel.”

“I deserve that one, I suppose.”

“Correct!”

Dan allowed a smile to pull at the sides of his mouth, “Alright, I’ll be a better teacher and influence next time I promise. We probably shouldn’t linger—I think someone is going to want to invade my chambers for an audience soon.” Dan’s voice dropped sadly as he felt the weight of his position bearing down on him.  With remnants of laughter fading, Phil stood from his armchair by the warm fireplace in Dan’s personal chambers. He gave an unnecessary bow that earned him an exaggerated scowl from Dan and walked from the room.

Once Phil vacated the room, Dan felt rather empty and wished that he could come back. The winter raging outside the castle was usually enough to make Dan want to stay inside eternally, but he was glad to be feeling more alive as of late. Having a real purpose beyond being a political weapon was a pleasant change. Phil offered just that, and Dan was honestly quite glad to witness his rise through the ranks. He had a warmth to his character that few others possessed, especially for a servant boy. Most servants were bitter, but Dan supposed that working in a bigger and more glamorous home than their own would accumulate into a collective resentment for the monarchy. He couldn’t blame them. Phil had somehow remained impervious to such thinking and was perfectly friendly with Dan. The crown had changed so much, but this connection was genuine and precious. Dan smiled at the thought of helping the boy to master Scots and perhaps another language if he found the need for more purpose in his life. He also noted that Phil had exceptionally soft hands, which proved most lovely when he had the boy ‘style’ his hair. Not that Dan particularly needed it to be styled.

A loud rap on the door stirred Dan from his daydream, forcing him to break the silence in the room and sever the lingering happiness of Phil’s Scots lesson. “Enter!”

“Lord Aubigny, Your Grace,” a nameless footman announced as he opened the door to the private chamber. Dan’s heart slapped against his ribcage as Ésme walked forward and presented himself in front of the King. Dan only turned his head from his position in front of the fire to look at Ésme, not bothering to stand from his chair.

An awkward silence hung in the air as Ésme considered whether he dare start conversation. He considered it could be safe to break this aspect of protocol, but feared for pushing it. Dan averted his gaze to the hearth, watching the flames crackle and slowly eat away at the logs.

“Dan, are you not going to talk to me?” Ésme said in the sweetest voice he could muster, keeping a distance from the armchairs by the fire, knowing that he may not be welcome in the unoccupied one.

Dan’s eyes dropped as he turned from the fireplace and, tiredly, opened his mouth to weakly breathe out a sentence. “It’s been only a few months since I took my throne,” Dan started, dejectedly breaking his good posture and falling into the chair to slouch. “I’m turning 13 soon.” Dan’s response completely ignored Ésme’s questions, but the older man remembered what it was like all those years ago when he was the young King’s age. A molehill became a mountain in the mind of a young adult.

“And here’s to another year in the long life of our King,” Ésme toasted, sans goblet, in a cautious tone. It only earned him a weak smile.

“I meant, I can see through the elaborate feasts and endless parties.” Dan dropped his head into his hands as he rubbed his eyes restlessly. “I really wanted us to remain on personal terms with each other. I don’t care about the pageantry or the titles or the ‘your Grace this, your Majesty that’. As King, I need to keep up false appearances and follow strict rules. It’s probably even worse for me than it is for you; everything I do can turn into a public scandal and every word I say has to be calibrated so that I don’t break the illusion that I’m not just a regular boy. They all have to believe I’m _chosen_ by God to be their King, they must believe it and I must play the part. Do you have any idea what that pressure is like?” Dan huffed as he saw Ésme’s eyebrows knit in slight confusion at how it all connected together. “I practice what I’m going to say for hours before every council meeting because I’m terrified of making a mistake and breaking that illusion.”

Ésme felt a sudden guilt at pushing Dan away at the banquet. He realised the boy needed to be treated normally sometimes. But it still boiled his blood. This boy had more than others could dream of yet he still didn’t like the life he’d been given. Dan detected some conflict in Ésme, taking the conversation in a different direction. “I raised that poor coachman’s station, I made him an attendant. He laughs with me, sometimes even at me. He doesn’t want to stop being himself; he’s not afraid. All I’m saying is that it’s hard to make friends and be a regular boy in my position, but he just throws it all away for me—to him, I’m just ‘Dan’. I…”

“Dan, I’m sorry but didn’t you just say that you do the exact same-”

“I felt hurt that you might not want to be my friend anymore.” Ésme’s eyes glared at Dan at being cut off, almost in anger as he considered a response, especially to the hypocrisy. Dan agreed that appearances need to be kept up, clearly, so why argue over how they handle themselves in public? Ésme didn’t attempt to downplay even a little bit of the frustration he felt. He chose to take a very different angle, his frustration venting in a wildly accusatory manner.

“Dan, do you not realise that there are millions of people across the world who would kill to be in your position?” The question was so snappish that it caused Dan to rise from his chair and face Ésme head on, sending him a look with his eyes that questioned whether he wanted to go down this path. The flaming colour on Ésme’s otherwise pale complexion confirmed that he was not backing down. “You must have realised by now that you were born into a life of incredible luck. Yes, there is a price to be paid for that. Is the sacrifice of maintaining a professional relationship during Court functions such a terrible price?”

“Ésme, do not try me. Do not tell me that I have an easy life. Do not tell me that I am the lucky one. I may have been born to this life, but that in itself is a terrible price to pay for what I have to endure. I didn’t ask to be born to my role, yet people  _hate_  me for it. Do you know what that’s like? To be judged on who my parents were? On the actions of a government that I had nothing to do with until a few months ago?”

“I do know what that’s like, Dan. Most of us know what judgment and prejudice is like. Anyone with a title understands that. How do you figure that you aren’t the lucky one? Your terrible price to pay, what is it? That you occasionally get lonely and ask me to  _risk_  your rule, your country, your life, not to mention mine as well? All this in potentially exposing a personal relationship between us when you ask me to treat you like we’re equals in public? Because you can’t stand the duality brought on by being King? We’re not equal, Dan. But that part doesn’t matter. You’ve been on your throne for barely a few months.” Ésme chuckled in a patronising way that had Dan fuming. “What do you know of prices to be paid?”

“I asked you to be my friend. Everyone has friends, and suddenly because I am King I am no longer allowed these? You’re a completely different person when we’re in front of the Court! Stop pretending that you’re protecting me by pushing me away like you do, if you don’t want my friendship then that is fine. Just don’t expect my favour later on.” Dan felt some of the anger leave his body as he took victory in the utter shock on Ésme’s face. It had hurt so much to have to say these things, but Dan could not see Ésme’s precautions as protecting him in any capacity. It was stupid and insulting to him that his entire country could be threatened by a friendship, especially one that formed no political alliance whatsoever.

“Dan, wait no – please…” Ésme begged as his face softened, anger receding from his eyes, “please don’t, that’s not what I want.”

“What do you want? My friendship and my favour? Just my favour?” Being direct would often yield answers faster, but it was his pain driving it. “Someone once told me that everyone who walks through your door must want something from you, or else they wouldn’t even be there. So which is it, Ésme?” He was in no frame of mind to be patient, even if directness was rude and strictly forbidden in proper etiquette.

“I don’t want either of those, Dan… The time we spend together, your innocence, your cunning nature, even your smile, the things we share together, the trust, it made me realise that just your friendship…” Ésme paused as a bout of melancholy surged through him. His breathing was becoming heavy, as if he were about to offload a heavy pile of books from his arms only to be crushed by the weight. “I think just your friendship isn’t enough for me.”

Dan chuckled darkly as he hitched his eyebrows in complete humour. “You push me away and now it’s not enough for-”

Ésme cut off the young King by moving forward and taking him in his arms, encircling him in his grasp and drawing him in. He brought his hands to the back of Dan’s neck to feel his soft hair and tug him towards his lips. The moment the two touched, he knew that at least for the moment, all argument was forgotten. Dan’s eyes widened as he recoiled, his mind screaming to retreat from the reality that his lips were on a man’s. The hand ruffling his hair was surprisingly comforting in that Ésme was the one doing it, but the fear coursing through his entire body disrupted all thoughts as Dan’s lips turned to unmoving stone, not even quivering as Ésme pulled himself from Dan’s face, hanging onto the boy for dear life.

“Just your friendship isn’t enough for me.”

“Wh-what is this?” Dan remarked, scrunching up his face as a look of betrayal flashed across him. He gripped his hair in his fingers tightly enough to rip it out. Why had Ésme done that? Dan felt himself breaking at the thought that his first true friend might try to diminish him in his own Court by implying such a dangerous rumour as caring for the affection of men. Panic started to bubble up like reflux, burning the back of his throat and threatening to spill out.

“I won’t deny it, you caught my attention Dan. You made a convincing case for wanting to be my equal in public but… I hope I’ve explained myself to you as to why I don’t think that’s a good idea. I can’t have your blood on my hands, I… I care too much for you to put you in danger by making what we just did a public matter. It would be a scandal.”

“N-no that’s not… not wh-hat I m-mean,” Dan stuttered. His eyes were wide open and completely taken by surprise. Ésme continued to hold him in place for fear that the boy might fall away if he let go. He held him as Dan’s lips began moving again, this time quivering as tears escaped his eyes. The two sank from their positions on their feet as Dan’s legs gave way, pulling them both onto a soft carpet by the fire. It was as nice a place as any to hold a boy through what could only be described as an emotional fit.

“Dan, it’s okay,” he reassured as the boy sobbed into Ésme’s shirt with pure fear scribbled across his face. Pure terror. “Just focus on my breathing, try to match it and follow me.” The ‘in and out’ process went on for some time, though Ésme knew that perhaps Dan wouldn’t be anywhere near his normal self anytime soon. He sighed at the thought that it may give Dan an excuse to avoid his governing responsibilities a moment longer, before chuckling at the idea that it is something Dan would do. Procrastinate on the governing of an entire country of people.

Dan had slowed down significantly in a short few minutes, clutching at Ésme’s clothing as if he were in danger of slipping off a high tower. So many things ran through his mind. He’d known who his bride would be for years, the match had been arranged long ago. He couldn’t bring himself to understand what had just happened. To do such a thing with another man felt utterly impure and undignified. To share a kiss with a man he was not even courting, forget about him not being a woman. It made Dan’s stomach lurch and fill him to the brim with an awful sickness. It was as if he’d drunk too much wine and had the evil substance sloshing about his insides.

“Dan, it’s okay. I know what you must be thinking… don’t worry, it’s so very normal,” Ésme reassured in a calming voice. Dan wasn’t sure what that meant. Normal wasn’t anything he knew. Nothing was normal or remotely alright in his life. Yet something in the sweetness of Ésme’s voice made him want to trust him. It sounded of home and so he tried to follow it. But the questions… the questions felt like that stack of books—seemingly impossible to drop, but so heavy and burdening that they might crush him under their weight.

“Don't you dare imply that I prefer the affection of men. It’s so wrong, even you must know this! Why would you do it? Are you threatening me? Are you going to tell anyone that I kissed back even for a moment? What do you want from me? Gold? Favours? Land?” Ésme’s hand came up to cover Dan’s mouth, ending his spiel.

“Dan, I told you I don’t want anything. And no, I’m not threatening you or implying anything. I just needed to show you why I said what I did at the banquet. Why I need you to be careful around me. I know that I care for you, and I know you must care for me. It’s not uncommon for men to care for other men like that. It’s one of the worst kept secrets in Europe, you know.” Ésme tried to infuse his speech with sincerity, adding a hint of a giggle to improve the mood. Dan relaxed slightly at the thought that this brief interlude might not leave this chamber.

“Ésme, I’m sorry I doubted your loyalty… But I also need you to understand something. It’s that I can’t take these risks and expect to maintain people’s opinion of me. What we just did... of course it isn't normal. I act like I don’t care what people think about me but I do. I care a lot.” Any remainder of Ésme’s frown dissipated and was replaced by a strong need to care for the boy, leading to him giving Dan a tighter squeeze with his arms wrapped around him. It stung like a dagger to the heart to know that Dan was correct in that risks needed to be calculated, and this was likely a huge one.

“I’m not trying to anger you, but are you arguing my point now? I tried to distance myself from you because I know you need to maintain the faith of the people. I know that you care about what they think,” Ésme asked with another giggle. He did want to savour this little victory and let it be known that he’d won. “But the bigger point still is that you agree with me, right?”

Dan sighed in mock frustration, and he couldn’t hide the smile from his face before Ésme planted a light kiss to it. “Yes, I suppose you are correct,” Dan reluctantly conceded. The kiss left an odd tingling on Dan’s lips, and it felt slightly better than before. Less shocking. He wasn’t sure whether it was normal to feel like that, in fact he was sure he’d break into tears later about his worthiness as a member of society. He didn’t know how to feel about it or how to even begin to deal with it. However, those problems felt distant enough to be kept at bay with Ésme sitting behind him. A comfortable silence hung over the two as they appreciated the still lit fire before them, positioning themselves to face to fire so that Ésme’s arms wrapped around Dan from behind, allowing the King to recline into his ‘friend’. Dan was still terrified and highly confused. Yet this night had been the first in many months that he felt that his rank wasn’t a potent poison that would corrupt anything he touched. Of course, it would hinder his ability be a proper friend to Phil outside of their private moments. Of course, it would force whatever was going on between Ésme and him into the shadows, but it wasn’t completely destroying his happiness. He could learn to live with these concessions and hope for a happy life that so many royals before him were not afforded.

“Can I just ask one thing?” Dan asked in a calm and curious manner, though harbouring some anxiety behind his eyes as he did so.

“Hmmm?”

“What… what happens now?” Ésme had honestly not considered the possibility of even being accepted by Dan, so had not thought this far ahead. He was wondering what would be best for the realm, for Dan, and for himself. He figured that none of those three coincided whatsoever.

“What do you want, Dan? I’m not asking what the King of Scots wants, I want to know what Dan wants. Ultimately, Dan will have to decide, and if he’s ready, the King will ask me whether I would like to court Daniel. If I accept the King’s request, then that will be your answer.” Ésme praised God for narrowly escaping the question—the monarch technically has to initiate a courtship. Nonetheless, Dan’s smile at Ésme’s separation of his own personal character from that of the King was free of tension.

“I think the King of Scots is less adverse to the notion of a man caring for another man than we might believe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, what I really liked in this chapter was to explore Elizabeth's background and give you a reason for why she's ruthless but also quite broken.  
> Her sister locked her in a tower when she became queen so you can understand Elizabeth's distrust of others which I believe to tie into her lack of desire to marry in the first place. More on other reasons she has to distrust men later.  
> All that forces Elizabeth, like Dan, to put up a facade of strength even though neither of them can really maintain it. They share a pretty broken childhood in common...
> 
> What did you think of putting both an Elizabeth and Dan part of the story into the same chapter? Would you prefer a chapter break between them? I debated whether to separate them, but it felt odd as both events are occurring at the same time. I wanted to draw up a connection between the struggles the two face by including them within the same chapter but maybe that reads quite weirdly, I don't know. I also want the next chapter to focus on Elizabeth meeting the Prince to have some sort of separation between her peaceful walk and being thrown back into the political cesspit of Court. 
> 
> Other things:  
> I loved showing Dan's hypocritical argument with Esme. Maybe it wasn't so subtle - he says that he wants Esme to be his equal but then says he needs to keep up appearances and that no one else understands. It just doesn't make sense does it hahaha
> 
> So yes the crown does change everything and Dan is finding out that a kiss can also change everything. The hypocritical argument does show a lot of Dan's immaturity, which I liked to continue as he oscillates between homophobic remarks and just doing what he wants with Esme, who clearly has had more time in his life to accept that he 'cares' for other men. Was the King homophobic? Not quite sure, but internalised homophobia is extremely likely so I'll be touching on that as he progresses through his relationship with Esme.


	11. Handsel Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Handsel Monday is a real Scottish tradition, generally considered the precursor to Boxing Day (which the UK also popularised)  
> Just for fun - a generic servant (maid, footman etc) in Elizabethan times earned somewhere around £3.10s. annually. In Scots Pounds, this translates to about £35 (Scots) a year. Hence, the expected Handsel would probably be a Scots shilling or two at most.
> 
> The exchange rate between a Scots pound and English pound in 1600 was about £1(Eng) -> £12(Scots) for reference, so I assume in 1580 it would be somewhat similar but idk
> 
> I had a lot of fun researching the event to present it in this chapter! Elizabeth's courting experience will also be explored too.

Footmen rushed about the castle clearing dust and candle wax from the floors. The winter holiday season was almost over, but perhaps the best festival was saved for this night. Servants were abnormally excited as they floated around the halls, replacing hundreds of candles in chandeliers among other tasks. A good explanation for this lively attitude was an ancient tradition known as ‘Handsel Monday’.

Dan was sure to fill his pockets with little silver coins to give as tips to any attendants he required throughout his day. Handsel Monday was a joyous annual event that filled his heart with warmth. He couldn’t wait to share this Scottish tradition with Phil; he knew the boy would absolutely love the idea. He supposed that Ésme, being a Frenchman like Phil, would also be unaware of the meaning of the day. He chuckled to himself at how odd the sunny disposition among the servants would look to the foreigners.

Dan passed a woman walking briskly with a large basket of candles. This was the part he loved most. The King managed to stop the servant in her tracks and she gave him a hopeful look which made him feel very charitable indeed.

“How long have you spent replacing the castle’s candles today?”

The woman bowed her head and curtsied to the King before rising to address him. “I woke early mornin’ and ‘av been workin’ since breakfast, sire.”

“Thank you for your service, I hope you will accept these,” Dan said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out two silver coins to give to the woman. Her eyes widened in gratitude—it was a significant sum for a lowly housemaid, but he knew they were often given the worst of household tasks. The woman had far more need of a few Scots shillings than Dan ever would.

“Thank you sire, God save you!” The woman scurried off after emptying her basket, perhaps to run to her quarters and store her earnings. Dan smiled after her, the gratitude radiating off good workers like her elevated his mood.

Dan was sure to find Phil as his next task in the day—he wanted to ensure that his friend understood his value to Dan, and not just as a personal attendant. As Dan walked to his chambers, he found himself digging into his pockets to give more coins to the servants who seemed most deserving. The smiles and reactions they gave made the exercise very cathartic.

Dan rounded a hallway corner to find Phil already waiting outside the entrance to his quarters, probably for their Scots lessons which would no doubt be a regular occurrence.

“Is it that time already?” Dan asked, beckoning his friend through the door to the chambers, “Oh, and before we get back to refining your language skills, I have something to give you.” The two made it through the rooms until they found a private library, which was much preferred to the study. It was a cosy little room with bookshelves lining two of its walls and a lovely fireplace which, thankfully, remained unlit. No death warrants to review or laws to sign into existence would interrupt them here, not even a maid had come to tend the fire. Phil felt comfortable enough in this intimate space to even share the singular chaise-longue with his friend.

“What did you want to give me?” Phil asked, he was rather curious and excited. The boy was bubbling with enthusiasm, which Dan found endearing especially as he was not aware of the significance of the day. It signalled that his warm character wasn’t motivated by the charity of a handsel; it was a consistent part of his personality.

“I hope you will accept these as a show of my gratitude,” Dan said, giving over a velvet purse filled with coins to his friend. Phil’s face scrunched up in confusion at Dan’s odd request, but it was quickly replaced with one of shock as he counted the coins inside.

“Dan, you put 20 shillings in here, that’s more than I make in a week! I can’t accept that!”

“You can and you must, it’s part of the tradition! If you’ve seen servants running about trying to be helpful for once, it’s because they know on today of all days there is money in it for them. We call it ‘Handsel Monday.’ We do it every year in Scotland on the first Monday of January.”

“So, this tradition is about running yourself broke every year by giving excessive amounts of money to servants?”

“Well, Phil, when you say it like that of course it seems odd—but no, usually it’s only a shilling or a half crown. It’s tradition to give little purses of money to servants and children, it’s meant to give you good luck for the year ahead and bring you prosperity. I don’t really believe in things like that, but it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is. Thank you so much, Dan.” Phil smiled broadly at the kindness of his friend, it was far too much money for someone like him to come by but he appreciated that Dan wouldn’t take it back.

“You’re quite welcome, happy reactions like yours are why I love this day so much. Sometimes being King makes me feel that most people are only friends with me because of what they can get out of me, but I don’t think you’re like most people. I know that you deserve the prosperity that the handsel is supposed to bring. I want it for you.” The two boys smiled at each other, until Dan began to explain the final part of the tradition with a hint of humour in his voice.

“The day is mainly observed for homes with servants, but small families do it too. The only problem is that it’s traditional to give a half crown handsel, and that isn’t possible for many people. A new tradition came about instead; a mother gives her son a half crown and he is slightly richer. She opens the back door to the house and the boy leaves with his wealth. Then, she ushers him back into the house through the front door as if he is a wealthy and important visitor. But in the end, the mother takes the coin back from the son...”

“That’s terrible!” Phil whined, feeling quite sad for those children. Dan softened at his friend’s immense empathy.

“At least the children receive the handsel for a few moments. Neither of my parents had the chance to celebrate Handsel Monday with me…” Dan’s tone flattened at the thought of how much he’d missed as a child. Phil felt strong empathy for the King—to lose a father to murder and then a mother to exile and house arrest in a land far away, all within the same year, was heart-breaking.

“The mother taking back the handsel is supposed to symbolise short-lived wealth, and to show that we shouldn’t take what we are given for granted, I think.” Before Phil could pry and ask further questions about Dan’s childhood, the King was already pulling him up from his seat. “Now that I’ve told you about the tradition, we need to complete the ritual!”

Dan had his friend walk from the room through the door and back in, offering his handsel back to Dan.

“I guess you’re my mother in this situation!” The two boys laughed over the thought of Dan being a mother, or even Dan being a woman at all.

“Let’s not draw that link please. Besides, you get to keep the gift. It’d make me happy if it got put to some good use, maybe you could find something you like in town on one of your off-days.”

With the Scots lesson completely forgotten, it was soon time for Phil to resume his day’s work.

“Oh, and Phil, could you tell Lord Aubigny to meet me in the council chambers for today’s meeting if you see him about the castle?” Dan figured that it was high time he gave Ésme his very own handsel, so was nervously excited for it when Phil nodded at his request on his way out.

 

Ésme found himself waiting alone in the council chambers at the head of the very long conference table. The empty space in the room was unsettling;dd usually when he’d been in here the Privy Council had been arguing boisterously with all the venom typical to a group of politicians. He was sure that once others arrived for the council meeting, he would miss this silence.

The large wooden doors creaked open, the whining hinges slashing the peace in the room, as Dan walked through. He’d made sure to dress as regally as possible for this particular meeting, and he saw the effect it had on Ésme. Although Dan did like to dress nicely, the fine silk tunic and purple and blue trunk hose were excessive and no doubt an obscene expense. The only explanation was that Dan was about to announce something unpopular.

“Dan, I don’t think your councillors are going to appreciate my invitation, what’s going on?” Dan grinned at the man, giving a brief explanation of Handsel Monday to him. Ésme felt happy to know that, at least in Scotland, servants were recognised in some way—in France they had practically been converted to Medici slaves.

Ésme cocked his head in doubt at the explanation. “So you’ve called me to the meeting to give me a half crown coin?” It wasn’t that he opposed the idea, far from it. After the last banquet and a tense conversation with Lord Morton, he didn’t want to be in the council room any longer than needed.

“In a way I am giving you a fraction of a crown. I want you on my council. I need someone I can trust to tame the opposition, and I need someone loyal to me when everyone else seems to be so spineless.” In truth, Dan did need someone in his corner but for worse reasons than Ésme would know; two of the most powerful people on the council were causing quite a panic. Lord Ruthven, as treasurer, was annoyingly persistent with settling the household debts. The King’s insistence on contracting actors to put on performances at Court and the 20 roasted pigs he’d ordered over Christmas probably didn’t help with that. The cost of running the government was already burdensome to the purse strings—Dan was hoping that Ruthven wouldn’t ask for interest on the loans he’d personally been giving to the household in order to offset the debt.

The wolf in the other corner of the council was the Lord Chancellor himself. The position being highest underneath Regent had gone to Lord Morton, which understandably created problems. Dan was sure that the man had been selling his country to Elizabeth during his regency, perhaps to line his own pocket or for more politically expedient reasons. Whatever it was, his actions as Regent made it seem as though he was ‘pro-English and Protestant’, rather than simply ‘pro-Scottish’.

“Wait, Dan—I’m not even a Scottish noble, I would never be accepted to the council. You know this, and besides, Morton already made it clear that there was enough French blood in the monarchy when I was at the last banquet. He doesn’t want me anywhere near politics.” Ésme felt very out of place as it was at the castle, he knew that joining the council would revive some stigma against Dan. After all, his mother was slandered for being a French Queen with a French mother—Dan was more English and French than he was Scottish. Ésme wasn’t sure an association with a noble from a Catholic country was necessarily a good idea.

“They’ll forget all that soon enough. For now, I want to give you your handsel. Usually, a handsel is a purse of coins, but it can be a non-monetary gift too. Just be careful; it’s bad luck and forbidden to give someone a handsel that has a sharp edge. I suppose I’m breaking the rule with this gift,” Dan said as he handed the older man several letters. Deeds to packages of land and even the right to a castle were among them. Dan beamed at the man’s surprise upon opening the letters. “Just don’t get a paper cut and you won’t be damned to a life of bad luck!”

Ésme smiled at Dan’s thoughtful nature, until he felt a thin piece of the parchment slice a cut into his finger. The throbbing pain in his finger wasn’t enough to distract him—he looked through the papers and quickly realised that the estate was sizeable, and in a prime position in the central lowlands.

“You’re making me a Scottish earl? Dan, the holding you’ve given to me is huge, are you sure?”

“Quite sure. The holding that comes with your title is the entire Lennox estate. My father was supposed to inherit it, but since he died the earldom ran extinct. It’s a good piece of land, I want to recreate the title for you.”

“Thank-you Dan, I don’t know what I can do to repay you for this. I didn’t have a rank this high even in France before!” Ésme exclaimed, throwing his arms around the King and giving a kiss to his cheek before Dan shot him a devious look and giggled. To do this in public was dangerous but strangely exciting.

“If you want to repay me, then please consider joining the council. I gave you this land because it joins up with a few smaller packages of mine and together, it’s enough to give you a seat and a vote. Control of this country has been lost for too long, I need you as an ally in my corner to help me take it back.” Dan allowed his request to sink in as he bowed over the table with a quill to give his ascent to the property transfer.

“Just be careful with the council, they’re not going to like this move. They’re going to think you’re bowing to French influence or that I’m somehow manipulating you,” Ésme warned.

The fleeting moment of mischief and happiness between the two died down as the rest of the council moved into the chamber to take their seats at the table. The King gave Ésme his seat as Lord Lennox directly to his right. He wanted to keep the man close. The councillors stood to greet the King, even Morton, before slipping down into their seats.

“I’ve called this council meeting because I was hoping to introduce an additional member whose advice and support has been most helpful to me in these past few months,” Dan started. He’d spent all night rehearsing precisely how he wanted to break this sensitive news. His heart was pounding as he advanced through the speech, but he didn’t allow the panic to surface and boil over. He forced the worry back down into himself, locked the door on it, and threw away the key.

“My grandfather, the late Lord Lennox, was predeceased by my father as you know. I have decided to recreate the title of Earl of Lennox for Ésme Stewart, the Lord Aubigny.” Several shocked faces could be seen and Ésme was having a hard time controlling the laughter that threatened to spill out at them.

“Forgive me Majesty, Aubigny is a Frenchman,” Lord Morton stated in a patronising tone, as if Dan was unaware of the fact. “This country has been exploited and torn apart by the French, is it not time that we Scots are given control of our country?”

Dan could see that Morton made a convincing argument in the eyes of the other councillors, who jeered and filled the air with patriotism. He turned to address the whole council on his spiel, standing from his seat and gesturing with his arms as he boomed. “How many foreigners are going to come to our land and attempt to take it from us, little by little? We have been controlled for years by the French—it was Marie de Guise who amassed Frenchmen on our borders. The French who provoked the English in bloody wars, using our country as the battlefield, using us Scots as the fodder. And when they were done assaulting England to our detriment, they left us to fend for ourselves. It was the French-raised Queen of Scots who forced her armies through our lands to dim the hope of Protestants everywhere. And now our King invites the French invader, Lord Aubigny, to take our land again?”

The council was roused by the speech and soon the members arranged themselves into a chaotic debate. Shouting came from every direction. Some remembered when Scotland had been saved from the English by French troops, others remembered only what happened after the French left. But every face in the room bubbled with anger.

“I am a Scotsman!” Dan shouted over the band of buffoons, “I was born in this country, I was raised in this country. Like you, I practice the common faith. Queen Mary may have been raised in France, she may not have understood her fellow man well enough to rule, but I am not the Queen.” The entire council froze when they saw Dan stand and fiercely push his voice out to them. All was silent. “I am the son of Mary Queen of Scots and grandson of James the Fifth. I was crowned when I was barely one year old. I have  _always_  been a Scot, and I will die a Scot. The blood of Scotland runs through my veins, the blood of Kings is in me. Whether my reign be long or short, I will never sell my country or treat my subjects as a bargaining chip in some political game!”

“But Majesty, is Aubigny not also a Catholic? This will not be received well by the other nobles,” piped up Lord Ruthven. At least his input was not related to the treasury, and for that Dan thanked God.

“Catholic, Protestant, truthfully I don’t see a difference. No matter our faith, we are Christians who recognise one God. I do not care for the advancement of Catholicism or Protestantism. The only advantage I care for is that of Scotland. If you all feel as I feel, if then you love your country as I do. Therefore you will support Lord Lennox as a member of this council,” the King responded. Dan directly eyed Morton as he finished speaking, who looked away to implicate another councilman, but no one else spoke. “Now if we’re finished, the Earl of Lennox will be granted his estate and family seat,” Dan finished. He saw Morton about to object in the corner of his eye. “My decision is final, there will be no further discussion.”

The councillors looked at their feet sheepishly as they shifted in their seats.

 

 

The servants trapped Elizabeth before a mirror in the early morning as they applied a full face of bone white powder to her. The relentlessness of keeping up regal appearances began as soon as she woke from her barely decent night’s sleep. The Duke of Anjou was granted permission to stay at the palace, so now that his belongings were moved into a stateroom, the coming days would be focused on their courtship. The Queen requested the most impressive outfit available in anticipation. A corset gripped around her waist to make it as thin as a tapered candle, which visually engorged the skirt flooding out of her sides. The lavish petticoats in golden silk were a rich compliment to the outfit, but richer still was the embroidered train extending from her back. Endless amounts of shiny pearls and sparkling gems would surely bring light wherever the woman went. The final touch was a wide neck ruff—all of these details ensured that the Queen was sparkling in a dress more intimidating than any other at Court.

With all this ostentation, Elizabeth found herself famed for taking more time to ready herself than any contemporary monarch—a nasty rumour had even spread to the continent that this was needed to remedy her ghastly features. That sent a wave of overwhelming insecurity about her, especially in her younger days. This only added to her rivalry with the Queen of Scots; Mary allegedly boasted a face so beautiful that it bewitched men’s hearts. Whenever Scottish diplomats stayed at the palace, Elizabeth had been sure to ask the usual questions: “Which Queen is fairer? Which is taller?”

That was 20 years ago; Elizabeth was now far more concerned that her age might show on her face. She did care greatly for the opinion of her people—to appear as if she hadn’t aged a day since her coronation would give the impression of stability. Of course, greeting any suitor required a show of strength, no less a royal Duke. Hence, Elizabeth found herself taking excessive time to remedy her ageing features.

Elizabeth was cunning enough to use her unique position as a female monarch to her advantage. She considered her femininity as a weapon. She played to ladylike stereotypes to outmanoeuvre those who dared to categorise her as delicate and harmless. However, such a quality was a double edged sword, even for a Queen. Sitting in front of a mirror for hours on end reminded her of why her father wished she were a boy; this femininity predisposed her to “the distraction of trying to look prettier than you truly are”. He saw it as proof that women, Elizabeth in particular, were apathetic to duty and were unfit to rule. A lady belonged in the business of gossip, marriage, and child production.

“Are you satisfied with the powder, ma’am?” The question jolted the Queen out of her angry thoughts of her father. The servant girl looked cautiously to Elizabeth’s stoic expression when she remained indifferent, as if afraid of her response. Elizabeth very much liked to incite fear through her appearance. To strike back against those who dare presume her delicate and harmless.

“If you are as fearful of your Queen as you look, then it is at least satisfactory.” Her tone was flat and her face so pale and expressionless that she seemed almost inhuman. It separated her from the mortals. Elizabeth attempted to give a friendlier look to the girl as the others in the robing room tried to hide their mixed expressions of humour and fright.

The final aspect of this meticulously calibrated look was the Queen’s flaming red hair. “Bring me the shortest and curliest wig so we might finally be done,” the Queen demanded. Elizabeth’s unremarkable short hair had already started greying from its golden colour—this was remedied with the flaming wig, which could be tamed into short curls.

“And your jewels, ma’am?”

“My locket ring will do. As for the ears, the rubies set in gold.” Elizabeth was fond of her jewels, they added an extra sparkle to her. However, her locket was her prized possession. It was a gift from her mother, a woman she barely knew. A fine image of her mother’s disgraced portrait was set against one side of the locket, while the daughter’s was opposite. It was almost as if her mother watched over her for as long as she wore it.

The Queen broke her immobility, snapping the locket shut once it had been placed on her hand, as a footman opened the door to the robing room. “Sir Francis Walsingham for you, ma’am.” The adviser walked through as the Queen turned her head from the mirror to address him.

“I see you’re dressed appropriately for tonight’s festivities.” Elizabeth smiled. He was in a simple black tunic and very primitive trunk hose. They looked more like bags hanging from his waist. With no ostentation or ornamentation to his attire, the Queen felt at ease. She would attract the Duke’s undivided attention if she were the most beautiful in the room by comparison. It was a dirty tactic, but one that she often employed.

“I am less concerned about which dignitaries will be attending, and more concerned for you,” Walsingham said. Elizabeth felt confused; she thought a potential marriage would please him. “There is a divide among the Privy Council—some believe that a marriage to the Duke can provide a link to Protestants in France. They are of course eager to see you marry and produce an heir as well.”

“And the others?” Elizabeth asked, bringing herself to the edge of her seat and forcing the servant girls out of the room with a flick of her hand.

Walsingham sighed softly as the girls scurried out. “Others believe that a marriage would be quite uneven. They see him as a foreign prince seeking refuge in England; you may be aware that his conversion to Protestantism earned him exile from France. A marriage likely won’t stabilise our warring relationship with the Valois.”

Elizabeth considered the information—the Duke would be an asset to encourage the oppressed Protestant population in France. A converted Protestant from one of the most devout Catholic Kingdoms at her side would send a strong message to her own subjects as well. “And what of your own opinion?”

The question came as a shock to Walsingham—the man wasn’t sure how to phrase his particular concern, so opted to speak slowly of the political complications first. “It is true, his hand in marriage offers no alliance with the French government. A foothold in Protestant France would be helpful, however I’m unsure of its value; one has only a single chance to marry and once one does, that strategic card can be neither played again nor taken back.”

“I feel as though your thoughts are deeper than the politics. What is your real opposition to this marriage, your real concern for me?” Elizabeth smiled at the man, a way of provoking him peacefully. Walsingham shifted awkwardly, feeling rather trapped by the mastermind before him.

“Your Majesty, if I may,” Walsingham paused as he flushed a bright colour at what he was about to suggest, “The expectation of producing an heir may be unrealistic. I don’t mean to assume or imply—I am concerned that you may find a pregnancy taxing-”

“Because of my age.” Elizabeth stared the man down until he confirmed her suspicion with a reluctant nod. She turned back to the mirror in disappointment as the servants re-entered the room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right so my goals with this chapter were to write more effective dialogue (I believe I attained a reasonable handle of it in the second part of the chapter) and to use the Handsel tradition to advance the plot (ie. Esme getting his title and land and the council getting annoyed).
> 
> The xenophobia and nationalism in Scotland was something I wanted to bring out - the Scots and especially those on the council dislike Frenchmen. The alliance between Scotland and France broke in 1560, and the council are wary about letting Esme "manipulate" the King into giving him a foothold in Scotland because the country had been ruled by effective foreigners for years, and that saw some of the worse religious wars in history.
> 
> I really focused hard on the Elizabeth part of the chapter as well. I loved exploring her relationship with her father (Henry VIII) and Anne Boleyn a little bit further. The locket ring is real, and Elizabeth was a mummy's girl-she wore it often. Elizabeth's costume and makeup was also essential to me- to hide her age because of her insecurities about beauty and to maintain strong appearances with costumes that show her character. Elizabeth actually did ask her ladies to wear black or white so she would look better in comparison when suitors were around, so I assume she was insecure at heart.
> 
> Note: I won't be posting for at least a week, I'm spending some time in the mountains and there isn't wifi readily available out here so... I'll be thinking about the story and maybe writing but not posting for a bit


	12. Cracks in the Veil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been ages--sorry.
> 
> Story recap so you don't have to re-read much (if at all):  
> \- Handsel Monday:  
> Dan made Esme a Scottish Earl to get him a seat on the Privy Council which pissed off the council who don't like French people  
> Phil got some charity money from Dan  
> Dan still isn't sure what's going on with his new relationship with Esme but needs him on the council to gain some political power--more on Dan's sexuality crisis soon
> 
> Elizabeth prepared for her meeting with Duke of Anjou (brother of King Henry III of France) and uses her appearance and femininity to gain control of the courtship and doesn't want the man to run the show--more on that soon as well  
> Walsingham discussed benefits of a marriage--allying England with a strong Protestant royal against a Spanish invasion  
> Elizabeth got cranky because the councilmen think she's too old to have children (implying she's barren and useless and has failed as a monarch)

Walsingham had made his excuses and scurried off after his run in with the Queen. The servant girls said nothing about it when they returned to the robing room to put the final touches to her Majesty’s appearance.

The Queen was then floating down a flight of stairs into a courtyard where she was to meet her suitor, Prince Francis, the Duke of Anjou. Her large golden dress and long embroidered train, the sheer scale of it, gave her the look of a Goddess. Someone ethereal. She took confidence in the pale makeup which transformed her middle aged face into that of a porcelain doll.

From what she knew of the French Duke, he was at least half her own age. Perhaps she endured hours of makeup to close the gap between them. Whatever it was, she glided across the palace floors into the courtyard knowing that her father had been wrong. A female monarch may not hunt deer like Henry VIII, but on this day her femininity would be exploited to catch something far more valuable.

She felt happier when she opened her mother’s locket ring and saw her portrait. She saw the similarity—both knew the value of their femininity. She would always be the daughter of Queen Anne Boleyn at heart if not in public. It didn’t matter which rumours others perpetuated or how her father slandered his wife in Elizabeth’s own private thoughts. Of course, whenever someone inquired, she would always be the daughter of King Henry VIII. To say otherwise would invite questions to her authority.

Elizabeth closed it when she passed under a stone archway into a glary winter’s day in the courtyard. The gravity fed water features in the four corners were disabled—the gardens were frozen. It wasn’t by any means a romantic setting; it was dead and still. The snow hid the intricacies of the stone carved statues placed around the courtyard, leaving little for the eye.

In the centre, sitting on a cold bench, was a man dressed in a floral red tunic and gold embroidered trunks. The Duke. Elizabeth thought the continued popularity of the fashion of her father’s day ridiculous; the pants resembled overstated candle holders. The man’s legs extending from the baggy trunks in their white tights would therefore be candles, she supposed. In one of her earliest memories, she openly wondered to her sister whether their father’s legs would melt and burn like beeswax if she held a flame near them. Bloody Mary, being older and less imaginative, laughed and called her “stupid”, of course. She chuckled—no finer definition of irony could exist. The overactive imagination of her younger self contributed to her more confident disposition. But the crown had killed that too, she thought.

“Who is it I hear? Someone laughing at my expense?” the Duke asked. He looked up to see the Queen in her overbearing dress. He felt the colour drain from his face at the realisation of her identity, scrambling to find words to explain his flippancy. She relaxed further still with the tone and power dynamic set.

“Worry not, I joke at my own expense. It’s far healthier and safer than risking an international incident with figures such as you.” The man quickly stood from the bench and bowed, taking the woman’s hand and kissing it.

“I agree, my Queen.”

“I’d be concerned for our future prospects if you didn’t,” the Queen laughed. “It is generally encouraged to be in agreement where possible with someone you may hope to one day marry, Duke.”

Elizabeth noted that his features were slightly uneven as he smiled at her lighthearted humour. His nose poked out quite far from his round face and his thick black hair sat high on his forehead. As an experienced lady, Elizabeth’s immediate thought was that one of his ancestors must have been a frog. The amphibian was nothing less than endearing and flattering, especially as the Duke seemed to have copied her choice of colours for clothing.

“Your humour surprises me, Majesty.” The Queen felt some of her worries for courting a much younger man drift away at his kindness. She motioned that they walk the gardens, offering her hand to the Duke.

“We women have little to offer but our wit and charm. We perfect the art while in a waiting room until we are married.”

“Do remember who you are talking to,” the Duke said. Elizabeth turned to him and glared as they walked. “I of all people have learned otherwise with Catherine de’ Medici for a mother.”

“I feel that to anyone else, your wit should be offensive.” Her face relaxed and stretched into a smile. The interplay with the Duke gave her a taste of herself; his humour caught her off guard in the way hers must have done him. She felt less a part of the furniture at the thought, like she had finally met her match.

“And what is such wit to someone as charming as you?”

“Welcome fun, a pleasant distraction from our troubles. Telling of personality,” she replied.

“I hope you see goodness in mine.” He stopped the two and looked into Elizabeth’s eyes for a response. She smiled at him and found kindness working into her answer.

“I see likability and maturity… I see pragmatism.” Francis smirked at her when she beckoned to continue the walk into the snow filled gardens. The vast expanses of grass, hedges, and bushes were covered in white that seemed to stretch on endlessly. “It shall look more attractive in the summer months, I realise our climate may be less tolerable than that of France.”

“No matter, I prefer to spend my time outside of my brother, The King’s, territory. I’m sure you remember Henry…” Elizabeth pulled her eyes from going wide—the man beside her wasn’t the first of the Valois princes to court her. Although he was the only one to visit her in person and was decidedly the best at it.

“I do remember, the ever flamboyant French Prince who…” The man anticipated her response and she choked to find appropriate words as she felt his careful gaze on her. “Who liked to play dress up?”

“You recall correctly—I would frequently see him about the castle in a lady’s corset and jewellery back home.” The humour from his voice had disappeared by then.

“What of your other siblings? I’ve never known much of a family myself,” the Queen asked, nearly stumbling over her words.

“Count yourself lucky, it is a constant battle for attention. To achieve greatness in one’s own right and set oneself aside from the others… My eldest brother, Francis, was the first of my brothers to be King after our father died. He was the golden child, I suppose that set the bar rather high for the rest of us.”

Elizabeth averted her eyes and allowed herself to be lost in memories from years ago. She remembered King Francis II quite well. Despite the fact that her blood rival married him, hence becoming Queen of both Scotland and France, she felt saddened by his death. He was only a young boy. Knowing that Mary’s alliance with France was broken after King Francis’ death, Elizabeth’s heart still went out to her. To become a widow at age 18, when she was barely a woman, crushed the Scottish Queen.

From what she knew, Mary truly loved Francis. Elizabeth was once jealous that Mary was able to find love and marriage in the same man when her own true love did not constitute a politically possible union. She thought that when Francis inevitably died, leaving Mary alone, she would feel victory over her rival. The alliance their marriage represented threatened the English Queen, and she meant to celebrate alongside all Englishmen when the time came. However, Elizabeth couldn’t bring herself to feel happiness at Mary’s misfortune. The besieged woman was left with nothing, even her late husband’s country turned away from her.

“Yes, I remember… I remember hearing of the news. The English are the oldest enemies of your country, yet in that moment I realised that he had only been a boy. And his wife, a woman with a crown who was so much like me, lost her entire world,” Elizabeth said after much contemplation. “Her husband, her position, her Kingdom... her home.”

Her thoughts spiralled out of control as the grief from all those years ago resurfaced. She never felt justified in celebrating Mary’s misery. The woman was, after all, the closest family of Elizabeth’s. She couldn’t categorise their complicated relationship; they were enemies but supportive in their fundamental understanding of one another’s rare position as female rulers in a world of men.

“I find myself jealous of you then… I barely remember my own brother, but I do remember Mary well,” Francis said.

“She was very beautiful, wasn’t she? She captured men’s hearts, their imaginations. Not to mention their loyalty!” Francis frowned.

“She stayed in France for some time after… Of course I was a small child then. To see her grieve for him and to hear her talk of him, I knew from her that my brother was a noble King and a good husband.”

“You adopted his name for your own to honour him, didn’t you... Francis?” The man remained silent, fighting back emotion. Elizabeth’s calm voice called back such love for his brother and his now thorny political situation with the Queen of Scots.

“I loved him, or at least the idea of him. I realise now that a marriage or even a courtship between us will be difficult considering that you were personally an enemy to France. And possibly responsible for the deaths of thousands of Frenchmen during a certain Protestant coup against my family.”

Elizabeth cast her eyes to her feet, thinking of her own actions to provoke the French during that politically turbulent time. She thought to the thousands of troops she sent to terrorise the Scottish border and across the channel to France. She felt guilt weigh on her. Many assumed she ruled with an iron fist and was phased by nothing. Truthfully, every decision she would ever make regarding even Mary was difficult and painful. The trick was to conceal that pain at every turn.

“Shall we continue on our way? We shall find time to discuss the political status of our countries and the precise terms of our marriage when my council is in session,” the Queen said. Not even the makeup could conceal the conflicting emotions—guilt and righteousness swirled around inside. She supposed that was why there existed Elizabeth Tudor and Elizabeth Regina. This situation beckoned the latter to the stage, where she remained as the conversation took a tired turn to the meaningless subject of racing stallions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off--I am very sorry for how long it's been since the last update. I actually looked at my last chapter (from Nov 3) and thought "wow that was ages ago, I really should write another one." That was three weeks ago. I finished the research and planning for this chapter shortly afterwards. I then tried to write it and I had no idea what I was doing. Cue me sitting around for another week.  
> I actually wrote another fic (was meant to be a oneshot) just to get around writer's block and to motivate myself to get onto this. It ended up being multi-chaptered and now my dumb arse is writing two major fics concurrently (oops)
> 
> Anyway, I originally had 3000 words of Francis+Elizabeth. Most of it got cut because I want to focus on their affection for one another rather than political games.  
> What I want you guys to see here is who Elizabeth is--how she uses humour to cope with situations where she has to try to be "herself" and vulnerable to a man. I also experimented with dialogue tags in this chapter to contribute to the theme of duality and inner conflict in Elizabeth as Queen and as a human, not sure if that worked but you can let me know!  
> What do you think about Elizabeth's relationship with her parents? Do her conflicting feelings about Mary and her misery surprise you?


	13. Friends and Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I had a few thoughts about how to explain the family situation (it's a little complicated) to show the relationship between Dan and various other characters. This should show you why no one really knew what would happen if Elizabeth died without a child...
> 
> https://imgur.com/5RLnedG
> 
> Have a look ^^^

The weeks after Handsel Monday flooded tension into the Court. Lord Morton grumbled at being forced to refer to Ésme as Lord Lennox even as February came. Lord Ruthven dumped his own grievances on top by shrieking about government expenses and household costs at every council meeting. So, the joy of the holiday season wore off quickly for the high ranking nobles who were thrown into the relentlessness of politics no sooner than they’d scrambled out.

Sir Melville, the ambassador to England, seemed under particular strain after he’d heard of Elizabeth’s courtship some weeks ago. Dan was unconcerned; a marriage would put to rest the speculation and anticipation: who would she marry and how would she use him? Dan admitted to Phil when he explained his wariness towards his cousin that it was a masterful move on her part—to keep her enemies guessing what she would do by keeping all her cards.

“It’s like a shield—she’s protected because the next heir could be God knows who,” he told Phil one evening when he’d snuck the boy into his chambers.

“But aren’t you the next sensible choice?”

“At which point we acknowledge that my mother exists!” Dan joked.

Phil had cast his eyes down after that. The line of succession was unwritten for a reason—pulling the trigger would be to play roulette. The game was enough to deter conspirators, at least those who didn’t desire _her_ to be put forth for the post. Dan didn’t like to antagonise Elizabeth; his mother’s tampering with English politics lead to her ongoing imprisonment. So, who his cousin married so long as it remained away from his borders, didn’t bother him.

The holiday spirit hadn’t worn off everywhere, even if Melville and the others were tearing their hair out over marital developments. Phil maintained a happy face, probably because his family in France now had enough money to buy food for three months. He joked with Dan that the real reason he’d come to Scotland was to collect his handsel and hand in his notice immediately after.

“But now that you’ve met me, you can’t find it in yourself to leave,” Dan said, batting his eyes at the boy. Phil agreed. He thought he might even prefer the rugged Scottish countryside to the soft French hills as Edinburgh began its peaceful transition into spring. He didn’t miss France so much as he missed his family once the harshness of winter lifted over the land. Of course, Dan ached for it to improve further still. Phil teased his friend about his lack of enthusiasm for outdoor activities, weather permitting or not.

Dan considered a trip north to Falkland should the weather continue to improve; it’d do him and Ésme good to get away from the castle. As of late, he wasn’t sure where they stood—the new Lord floated around the castle aimlessly. At council meetings, Lord Morton made it his business to educate the new Lord in the order of precedence.

“Lord Lennox, as the newest member of this council, don’t you think it would be best for you to assume your proper seat at this table?” Some of the councillors had rolled their eyes at the formality, Lord Arran was particularly restless. He was a pragmatic man—if Lennox’s presence bolsters the King’s confidence, then precedence is irrelevant. Nonetheless Morton forced Ésme down the table as far away from top job as possible. To the very back.

Escaping that toxic environment was why Dan loved spending his time around Phil—the fuss over precedence and titles dissolved. Dan had elevated Phil to the post of “secretary/equerry” to lower boundaries further, though Phil didn’t entirely know what that meant.

“You’re already doing everything a secretary does anyway,” Dan told him as they strolled in the castle courtyards. “You bring people to my study and announce them, you locate edicts and papers for me, and I always tell you national secrets even though I shouldn’t.” Phil giggled at him, he would never share them of course.

“Maybe you should stop trusting national security to me, you know I can’t keep a secret,” Phil said.

“Look, if you’re my equerry then at least it’s not weird if we’re seen together _and_ I don’t have to worry about you making any servant’s gossip.” They both snorted at the prospect—Phil was far too introverted to talk to other humans, let alone spread nasty gossip.

Phil saw the merits to the new post; they’d both spoken of the desire to function as friends in public. This would allow them that pleasure. It felt reassuring to Dan that he was permitted a friend, someone in his court who obviously didn’t dabble in others.

Their friendship could blossom with no seed of poison to kill it. Better still was that long, heavy coats were not needed around Phil; Dan could drop the regal appearances and wear his simplest silver and green tunic and trunks. He could let his hair curl without worrying.

“I guess I won’t be able to gossip to Marguerite in the kitchen all about your love interests...” Phil laughed, Dan turned to face him and forced a smile. “Or the real reason you hate the game meat the Lords insist on eating at feasts.”

“Please, we both know there isn’t a ‘Marguerite’ hidden in the kitchen. And our game meat is too tough. The Lords might like it but they’re also the buff unintellectuals going and killing the bloody things.”

“Is Dan admitting that he isn’t a buff, strong man?” Phil questioned, raising his eyebrows and leaning in for a response as they walked.

“Look at me Phil, I sit inside all day reading and my arms look like noodles.” Phil sniggered and they continued on their way.

The friendlier Lords seemed to have accepted Philip, as he was known to them, as a suitable secretary and equerry. It was now tolerable to have him in the dining hall—Dan felt a smug glow on his cheeks at the thought of a former servant among the ranks of prominent figures at feasts. The whole friendship pulled Dan out of the great ordeal; to function as a mortal others understood and connected with, a divine creature touched by God that no one understood, and a stone faced leader of a country, all at once.

The great ordeal brought on the feeling of being lost on a winding road, but that anxiety disappeared with Phil by his side. They organised each other’s thoughts and struggles, made sense of them. Oddly, they shared many of these struggles despite their different backgrounds.

“Do you miss your family? I didn’t really think about it before asking you to stay here permanently…” Dan asked.

“All the time. I think about my mum and dad every day. My brother too…” Dan winced; the royal family of Scotland had only one member. Ésme propped it up as a father figure of some kind, Phil represented something more brotherly. He wasn’t sure whether the ache for family had been there all along, he was only feeling it now.

“Why did you leave France?” Phil pulled his face into a smile before looking down at his shoes and back up to Dan. The smile soon faltered.

“I’m not a Catholic,” he said, “My parents are, but not me.”

It was Dan’s turn to look at the stone courtyard floor as if it were interesting. “Oh, I’m sorry… that’s awful.”

“Oh no,” Phil sighed, “Not like that. They don’t hate me for it, it just wasn’t safe for me to stay in France. The Bartholomew Day massacre…” Phil trailed off.

“Will you ever go back?” Phil didn’t try to smile this time, he looked up at the King and his pale complexion drained the emotion from his face as he replied.

“Maybe.”

 

                                                                                                *~*

 

In the council chamber, the men slumped in their chairs as the day wore on. Morton’s fuss over precedence and Ésme’s place at the table detracted from important matters: the treasury, ensuring efficient farming practices for the coming spring. Without the King present, discussion had little focus. So, when the council adjourned everyone bolted out of the room. Morton remained in his chair, pinning Ésme to his own with his cold staring eyes. His face was hidden by an orange beard he’d grown over the winter, he was hard to read and intimidating.

“Aubigny, stay seated.”

“What is this about, Morton?” Ésme shifted in his seat, resting his hands underneath his trunks.

“The other council members and I demand you renounce your title and leave the castle.” Morton glared at him while he waited for a response. Footsteps and loud chatter of the other councillors could be heard moving away from the chamber, but that was all.

“My presence is at the request of the King,” Ésme said. “I’m his ally, his friend. We are family, should I not support my own?”

“You may be a Stewart and share common blood, but you are not a Scot. You may be family, but you are not an ally.” Ésme huffed at the deflection. The hatred wasn’t that simple.

“You hate me because I was not born here, you hate me because the King favours me and does not listen to you. You hate me because I have a position when you lost your own, your power was taken away while I’m rising up!” Morton fumed, rising up and grabbing the man by his tunic as if to beat him like a child.

“It is _not_ about your dirty and common French blood!” Morton shouted, banging down on the table and spitting at Ésme in the face. “You _do not_ know anything about this land or _our_ politics! Don’t think you know what we have suffered through for our freedom and sovereignty. Don’t pretend you know anything about our home!” The braying voice pushed Ésme to recoil and shut his eyes. “Your country used mine to fight England on both sides. Your country forced mine into wars and skirmishes we did not want. It is time we got _our_ land back and pushed you Pope licking bastards back to your filthy rat hole.”

Ésme opened his eyes and pushed the man back when he’d finished barking. He had felt Morton’s breath on his neck, he looked like a werewolf about to bite. “I had nothing to do with any of that, I didn’t support France threatening Elizabeth. I didn’t order attacks on England,” Ésme said, out of breath and trying to regain his footing.

“Yet we both know why you’re here. You think no one blinked twice when a disgusting foreign gutter rat strolled into the castle uninvited?”

“I’m on a diplomatic mission to support the new-”

“ _Don’t_ … lie.” Ésme took in a breath and sighed in defeat, sitting down on his hands again. “Elizabeth told me that the French might send one of their _rats_ to Scotland. That I needed to weed them out and crush them under my feet.”

“What do you owe Elizabeth? The French were your ally, whatever she is, it’s worse.”

“Worse? Elizabeth doesn’t want to waste her army fighting a needless war with us. But France was happy to kill Scottish sons and daughters, ruin families, to get rid of that snake of a woman. I may not like her, but you can be damn sure I despise the alternative,” Morton hissed.

“And what would that be?”

Morton ignored him and huffed, amused. “The Pope says that it’s not a sin to kill the Protestant Prostitute. No, Elizabeth isn’t the reason my three girls grew up without a father at home. She’s not the reason my wife is an idiot and prodigal. She’s not the reason our country is neck deep in military debt. I blame the power hungry King Henry and his Medici whore for that. The worthless puppet, Marie De Guise, killed and slaughtered and ruined us Scotsmen like it was a flowery shortcut. And then the slut sent us the bill. And that’s not even touching on the entitled Queen of Scots, the stupid child…”

“I…”

“Don’t think I don’t know why you’re here,” Morton said, raising his hand to cut the other off. “That’s no longer my biggest concern. You French are arrogant. You don’t know what the King did when he made you Earl of Lennox, you should have refused. The title doesn’t belong to you. I cannot let you keep it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get across the suffering and stress put on Morton as an individual -- being a politician kinda ruined his life. His wife went crazy and spent most of his money (I assume due to neglect) and his three daughters were declared mentally unfit. 
> 
> I wanted to challenge perception of Morton and his motivations -- is he really as evil as we thought? Is there any part of him that's justified?  
> If you're horrified by his attitude towards women, then that's good. Mary Queen of Scots caused a civil war against him, Elizabeth threatened him when their interests were not aligned, and he blames Catherine de Medici for Scotland's continued instability because of French military intervention. He hates French people and he dislikes female rulers because he hasn't known anything else for a long time.
> 
> What do you think of Esme? His reason for coming to Scotland was never explained, do you think he's there to support Dan or for his own reasons? I'll be interested to know if you can figure out why the title might not belong to Esme ... ;)))


End file.
